


Seers, Souls, and Scandinavians

by hells_half_acre



Series: Demented'verse [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen, HP: Epilogue Compliant, Post - Deathly Hallows, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2012-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-05 03:49:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hells_half_acre/pseuds/hells_half_acre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a village to raise a soul from perdition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ in July 2011

The alley was dark, narrow, and dirty. Thankfully, the rain dampened the stench of urine, though the smell still made his lip curl in revulsion. He walked confidently towards the door that hung crookedly off its hinges. His only protection against the rain was the heavy wool cloak with its black hood that he had pulled from his father’s closet that morning.

This, his father had taught him - how to move about the vilest of places without letting them touch you, without it damaging your pride. Back then, his father would have said, “See what the great arts have been reduced to? See how we suffer without the Dark Lord,” and he would have imagined the alley cleaner, he would have blamed the muggle-lovers for the smell that would cling to his shoes. Now, though... now he knew better. This is where these “great arts” deserved to be. If the Dark Lord had been victorious – the heavens and Merlin forbid – the entire world would be a dark, wet, alley that reeked of piss and bile.

On the upside, the population of such places were nothing if not discrete.

There was no use knocking – or maybe it was just the first test. He let the door swing shut with a bang and waited for his eyes to adjust to the even dimmer light. His cloak shed water on the warped floor of the entryway. A small staircase led up towards the kitchens of a pub, while beside it a rickety staircase went down into an abyss of a cellar.

 

Draco hated cellars.

 

“You’ve come then,” a voice said from the bottom of the stairs.

 

“I have,” he answered, though that much was obvious.

“Come in,” the voice called back up. “Leave your coat on.”

“With pleasure,” Draco responded, as he carefully made his way down the steps and was met with air that seemed even damper than outside.

The room itself was half storage room for the pub above and half poorly cleaned living quarters. It was lit by a few scattered oil lamps. Large tapestries hung as draft excluders, and yet the images on them were too old and faded to make out. Draco thought perhaps he saw a woman holding a severed head on one of them, but then, it could have also been a man enjoying a pot roast.

 

Draco kept his eyes on the old hunched figure, who was now pulling on a pair of thick dragonhide gloves. The old man had come recommended – well, not so much recommended, as sneered at Draco when Draco had attempted to go through proper channels to speak with someone in possession of the eye.

“He loathes me for my lack of altruism,” the old man spoke up. “He believes I should use my gifts as he does, to support the ministry and live comfortably on a government salary – benefits, pension. Golden handcuffs.”

“What and give all this up?” Draco muttered, pulling his coat tighter to himself. There was probably black mould growing behind the tapestries.

The old man laughed and picked up a metal trough full of smouldering coals from the corner, and then thumped it heavily down on a low solid wood coffee table. Draco watched as the heavy metal legs of the coal trough sunk into the table’s surface.

The old man waved a dragonhide gloved hand to encompass the waterlogged room, “Merely ambiance.”

“You’ve ruined your table,” Draco said.

“Do I tell you how to do your job, Mr. Malfoy?” the old man replied with a raised eyebrow.

“How do you know my name?” Draco asked.

“Weren’t expecting much, were you?” the old man said. Draco opened his mouth to speak, but the man silenced him with a wave of his hand. “Hogwash, yes, I know that’s what you say you believe – and yet, you are here.”

“I’ve exhausted all my resources,” Draco conceded. “I just thought... I don’t know what I thought.”

“You were frustrated, and then you heard the rumours, but no one would ever give a former Death Eater that kind of security clearance – and you won’t risk a breach of what little trust you have, not even if you are Potter’s dirty errand boy.”

“How dare you!” Draco spine stiffened. “I am not-”

“Not this time, no, but he has used you for such purposes before. I am not wrong,” the old man said. He gestured to a low stool on the other side of the coffee table that now held the trough of burning coal. “If you stop judging me, I will stop judging you, and we can conduct our business amicably.”

“Very well,” Draco said. He drew up his coat and sat. The old man turned and opened a trunk in the corner of the room.

“You’ve come to enquire about someone from the Americas, yes?” the old man asked, as he folded back some cloth in the trunk and pulled out a thinly chopped piece of wood.

“The United States of America,” Draco said. “From what I understand, he had never been outside of it.”

“Mmm,” the old man said, and pulled out a second lighter-coloured piece of wood as well.

The man closed the trunk and walked back over to the table. He placed the two pieces of wood on top of the trough of coals.

“Think of him,” the man said.

Draco had but barely thought the name, when both pieces of wood became engulfed in flame. They burnt high and bright, snapping and crackling in the heat – the wood splintered and sparks flew up, and out, the larger ones falling to the table below and singing the wood.

“Think of him and look into the flame,” the old man repeated.

So Draco thought – he thought of arriving in Boston and meeting a stranger wearing Harry’s face – a small boy in the background who stood threatening as though he were twice his size... and he was. He remembered his wonder and questions when entering the chamber of the Department of Mysteries, his concern when Harry needed Draco’s assistance. He remembered the brief look of panic that Sam had given him, when Draco had sarcastically asked if he ever felt as though he had been cursed. He thought of the warning in Sam’s voice when Draco had pulled his wand. He thought of Sam’s quick forgiveness when Draco had hit him with spell out of fear and reflex upon learning that they were Hunters. He thought of the files he had read about Sam’s life. He thought of Sam threatening Draco’s father and smiling at Draco’s son.

All this he thought while he stared into the fire, until all he could see was the fire. He wondered if the old man had turned off the oil lamps that had illuminated the dank room when Draco had sat down, but he did not look away from the fire to check. Instead he watched as the flames leaped and danced, and burnt through the dark and the light wood as though they were paper, and he thought about all the questions he wanted to be answered, and about the brothers that had somehow worked their way under his skin in such a short time.

“Ask your questions,” the old man spoke.

Draco wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but suddenly the pieces of wood were just other coals in the metal trough – still casting an orange glow onto the table top and the old man’s lined face.

“Sam Winchester-” Draco began in a whisper.

“Sam Winchester lives,” the old man said. Draco’s eyes snapped up from the fire and stared at the old man. The old man’s eyes slowly lifted from the burning coals and his gaze seemed to bore into Draco’s soul - his face sinister in the orange light. “Sam Winchester screams.”

Draco felt terror rush through him, he wanted to run, and yet felt frozen to the spot. He did not understand.

“The body seeks pleasure,” the old man said, his gaze once again upon the coals. “The mind rationalizes. And the soul...” a snap from the coals produced a sudden shower of sparks. “The soul suffers torment in time unending.”

“How-” Draco began, his voice cracking on the single word.

“Someone has made a mistake,” the old man said.

“Who? What-”

“He was not powerful enough – not alone,” the old man said. “What you seek, it cannot be done by mortals.”

“Then who?”

“Life and Death – both are known by many names. They need only blink their eye, and yet – and yet, they will not get involved without good reason. But such times are dire... perhaps, ah, but it is unclear. Sam Winchester lives and Sam Winchester screams... in time unending and unfathomable. Sam Winchester lives and Sam Winchester suffers,” the old man trailed off shaking his head and muttering, “Life and Death, Life and Death, many names but always the same.”

“But what does that mean?” Draco asked, staring into the coals and wishing he could see what the old man saw. “What are we supposed to do?”

“That, I cannot say,” the old man said.

“Can’t or won’t?” Draco asked.

“Cannot,” the old man smiled softly. “Now ask your other question – we have only explored one half.”

Draco glanced away from the fire, and stared at where his own pale hand grasped his rain soaked cloak. The purpose of the visit had been Sam – all of his research this past year had been about Sam. It didn’t seem right-

“Would he not ask himself?” the old man spoke softly.

“His brother,” Draco said, glancing back up towards the fire. “How- What- Is...”

“Hmm,” the old man put back on the dragonhide gloves and moved the metal trough off the table. Then with a wave of his wand, the oil lamps that lined the room relit. Draco thought for a moment that he was being dismissed without answer, but instead the old man began to study the scorch marks on the table.

“The brother lives – melancholy, though not alone,” the old man said. “He fulfills his promise, but that will soon end and there will be relief, guilt, and betrayal.”

“End how?” Draco asked.

“The body will come to him, and then it will come here – there will be joy, but short-lived and mistaken,” the old man said. “This is all I can see.”

“I don’t understand,” Draco said. “What do you mean by the body? Who is coming here?”

“It is as I’ve said. Sam Winchester lives and Sam Winchester screams in torment. It is you who have sat with the books and met the brothers. It is you that have the tools to understand. I am nothing but an back-alley fortune teller. I know nothing of these men, nor how they came to be divided. I know nothing of the mistake, nor how it may be rectified. Now, payment; hours have passed, Mr. Malfoy, and your wife wonders where you are.”

*

George was reading over the accounting for the month, when he heard his name.

“George? ...or Ron?” a voice asked from the wireless in the corner - the wireless that George had connected to the Extendable Ear display in the shop. The names were followed by an audible sigh. “Could you... I have a message for Potter, if one of you could come to the till, it would be appreciated. If you’re even listening... Harry said that-”

“Who are you talking to, Daddy?” A small voice asked.

“No one,” the adult answered in a much softer tone than he had used when addressing the Extendable Ears. “Potter has finally driven me to madness... hm? What do you think about that? Your father’s gone mad. There’s no telling what I may do. Perhaps I’ll start eating adorable little boys! Oh look, here’s one!”

Suddenly the wireless crackled with a squeal of child’s laughter, which was soon joined by a low warm chuckle as the pair moved further away from the listening device.

George realized he was smiling at the wireless. That had been a downright incriminating amount of adorableness. He carefully marked his place in the ledger and made his way back to the shop as had been requested. It wasn’t that busy, which was why he had been taking the time to go over the finances.

Isabella looked over from the till, where she was ringing up the purchases for a boy who looked around ten. She shot George a curious look, and then glanced over towards the front of the shop in slight concern – and yes, George could see the top of a blond head just past the skiving snackbox display.

“Everything alright, Mr. Weasley?” Isabella asked, when George approached the till.

“Yes, fine Izzy, I just got tired of looking at numbers – thought I might come out here for a little break,” George replied. “Actually, it’s been a while since I’ve worked the till. Why don’t you pop in the back and see if we’ve got any new owl orders, and I’ll look after things out here for a bit, yeah?”

“Yes, sir,” Isabella said.

“Stop calling me sir, Izzy,” George smiled.

“Sorry, s-Mr. Weas-George,” Isabella said.

“Twenty-minutes,” George smiled. “If the owl orders don’t take you that long, you can have a tea and put your feet up in the back.” Isabella nodded and disappeared towards the back of the shop. George looked over and caught Malfoy’s eye, but only briefly, before he busied himself with restacking the quill display at the end of the counter.

Five minutes later, Malfoy approached the till with his son perched on his hip. He placed two novelty muggle wind-up toy cars on counter. Scorpius smiled brightly at George.

“Hello,” George addressed Scorpius. “I see you’ve found our selection of muggle toys.”

“Scorpius likes cars,” Malfoy drawled. He shifted Scorpius on his hip, so he could reach into the inside pocket on his heavy black cloak.

“Do you?” George asked Scorpius.

“Yes,” Scorpius said. “They go vroom! And these ones go by themselves! And my friend showed me a real car! Grandfather says they’re... something mean... but Daddy says not to listen to Grandfather and that cars are brilliant, because they go even without magic! These go by magic, but that’s okay – because they’re toys, not real cars.”

Malfoy was slowly turning red throughout the entire little speech, and George wouldn’t have been able to hide his smile if he were held at wand-point.

“I’ll tell you a secret, Scorpius,” George said. “These toys don’t work by magic either. They’re also made by Muggles, and they work using something called ‘mechanics’ – not magic at all.”

Scorpius’ eyes got wider and he smiled brightly and looked at the two little toys on the counter as though they held the secrets of the universe.

“He is adorable,” George said, finally looking properly at Malfoy, and giving him a wink. “I can see why you’d want to eat him.”

Malfoy blushed deeper. He pulled his hand from his pocket and dropped two gallons and a small white envelope on the counter.

“Right, um, that should cover it then, thank you,” Malfoy said. George nodded, and slipped the envelope to a safe place under the counter, as he simultaneously made the old register ding and deposited the money. He put the two toy cars into a small bag and handed them to Scorpius, who immediately hugged the purchases to his chest.

“Thank you for your patronage, Malfoys,” George smiled, tipping an imaginary hat.

“You’re welcome, Mr. Weasley!” Scorpius declared, then turned to his father and said, “Daddy?” while pushing him in the shoulder.

“Oh, um, yes, have a good evening, Mr. Weasley,” Malfoy said dutifully. Scorpius gave an approving nod, and Malfoy let out a relieved sigh before making his way towards the door. George smiled after them. Then once they were out the door, he turned to the photograph of him and Fred that hung on the wall beside the till.

“Draco Malfoy raising a muggle-lover, did you ever think you’d live to see the day?” George asked. He paused only briefly before rolling his eyes. “It’s not insensitive; it’s a figure of speech!”

Fred-the-Photograph stuck out his tongue.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry sat in his study. Papers were spread over his desk, some stacked and organized, some only seemingly so. He raked his hand through his hair and glared at them all – maybe the force of his frustration would present him with an answer as to what it all meant.

In the beginning, it was a project that took up all their free time – they’d meet weekly to discuss their findings. Well, he, Ron, and Hermione would meet weekly - Draco would pass Harry in the hallway at work and shake his head. Soon, in the face of dead-ends and seemingly futile searching, their lives had taken over. There was an underground ring of dark relic smugglers, for which Harry and Ron had to coordinate a special Auror squad. Hugo had come down with ear-infection after ear-infection and both Hermione and Ron had started using all their free time to sleep or sit around in pathetic dazes. Draco must have stopped making a point to pass Harry in the hallways, because eventually Harry only saw him once a month at most. Instead of shaking his head, Draco would fix Harry with a haughty look, as though _Harry_ were the one that was failing them all completely – and maybe he was.

Then there was the news from America – upon Harry’s request, Phil was keeping him well informed. Hunters weren’t Phil’s department, but the American Ministry was small and it wasn’t unusual for everyone to know each other’s business. An old Hunting clan had suddenly become much more active, seemingly being gathered under a new leader. In itself, it was not overly concerning, but the name sparked Harry’s attention – Campbell. Harry knew that Sam and Dean were Winchester’s through and through, but that didn’t mean that activity in their matrilineal line should be ignored. It definitely seemed like odd timing – as soon as the last remaining Winchester retired, the Campbell clan suddenly had a resurgence.

On top of that, the muggle monsters were acting strangely – if Harry didn’t know better, and actually, he didn’t, he would think they were gathering forces. The Seers pretty much confirmed it, from what the Department of Mysteries was allowed to tell Harry in any case. There was talk of a growing storm, of coming war and war already begun, turmoil in heaven, and something a Seer only referred to as “the empty vessel.”

Harry also had a stack of letters sent from Bobby Singer to Hermione. He had tried to find some sort of hidden meaning in the lines, because although he had never met the man, he could not believe that Bobby Singer had given up on rescuing Sam. It’s true, Mr. Singer made a good point about how Sam made his choice and it was important that they all respected it – but it just seemed... off. Harry was beginning to wonder, if maybe Bobby was already fully aware of how fruitless all their searching for a solution had been and was just trying to come to terms with the disappointment in his own way.

There was the small white envelope from Draco that had been passed to Harry via George. George had then oddly asked if Harry knew of any muggle books for children about mechanics, claiming that it was all part of this glorious prank he wanted to pull. Harry had directed him to a local bookshop, before he had torn into the envelope baring Draco’s rather pretentious handwriting. He had hoped, of course, that Draco had stumbled onto something brilliant. Instead, he found more Divination riddles from an extremely questionable source and Draco’s humblest apologies that he had exhausted all his resources and could only hope that Harry would “have better luck as usual.”

Only, he hadn’t had better luck. Not at all. Harry wasn’t sure how he could ever face Dean Winchester again – not after having failed so spectacularly the one time Dean really needed him.

There were voices from downstairs. Harry wondered if maybe Ginny had turned on the wireless, but then he recognized Ron’s voice, and Rose’s delighted talking – then many feet on the stair, and suddenly Ron, Hermione, and Ginny come crowding through the door wearing expressions both happy and disbelieving.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

“I’ve got a letter from Bobby,” Hermione said, brandishing a folded bit of stationary.

“Has he found something?” Harry asked.

“Better than,” Hermione smiled. She opened the letter and began to read:

 

_Dear Hermione and friends,_

_Cat’s out of the bag around here, so I figure that gives me permission to tell you too. I only hope you can forgive me for keeping it from you for so long._

_Sam’s back.  He’s been back nearly a year now, not too long after he went. He made me promise not to tell Dean, or you. He had a good argument for keeping it from you all at the time, or else I’d never have agreed. Dean’s found out now, and he’s none too pleased that I didn’t tell him. For the record, I wanted to tell him and tell you – but like I said, Sam had made me promise. Maybe it was stupid of me, but I’ll blame it on the shock of seeing the boy when I thought I never would again._

_Now, of course, he ain’t exactly the same as when he went – it was the same with Dean though, when I think back. You didn’t know him back then, of course, so you wouldn’t know the difference – but Hell does change a person, no matter how brief their stay. Sam doesn’t talk about it. Neither does Dean._

_I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner, I really am. If it makes any difference, I did argue with Sam about it whenever I saw him. He was convinced you’d tell Dean though, and he wanted to give his brother a chance at a normal life. Dean would of never stayed put if he knew Sam was back – and well, we both thought that maybe Dean had found his ticket out, and the last thing either of us wanted was to drag him back in._

_Like I said though, he knows now. Some Djinn eventually tracked him down, Sam had to step in to help him – and well, that was that. Dean and his new family are okay, by the way, so don’t worry about that. Dean’s upset by being kept in the dark and I don’t blame him. He’s still living with the family for now, but now that he knows Sam’s out there... well, time will tell, I suppose._

_So, I wanted you to know that you can stop your searching – we don’t know who brought Sam back, but we’re not about to look a gift-horse in the mouth. No one had to sell their soul this time and that’s all that matters._

_Again, my apologies for not telling you sooner – but I’m blaming Sam for that, so you can have it out with him. I know Dean has._

_Yours,_

_Bobby_

 

Harry stared gobsmacked at Hermione, and then all but tore the letter out of her hands so that he could read it himself.

That. Utter. Bastard.

Harry was torn between traveling to America just to hug Sam, and traveling to America just to punch him in the face. How could he have possibly thought that keeping this from them was for the best? How absolutely inconsiderate of his friends... no, not just his friends, his _brother_ \- how on earth could he have done that to _Dean?_

“Oh, don’t be angry, Harry,” Hermione pleaded. “It is good news – and I know... I know that it’s hurtful that he let us think... that he let Dean think-“

“That he was suffering eternal torment in Hell!” Harry said. “We’ve been so desperate to find way to help him that Malfoy even considered-” Harry cut himself off when Ron stepped forward slightly and glared at him.

“There’s no need to shoot the messenger, Harry,” Ron said.

“Right, right,” Harry said. “Sorry, Hermione.”

“Read the letter, Harry,” Hermione said. “Bobby says right there that Sam’s... that he might not be completely okay. Maybe he’s judgment is a little off and Bobby just agreed because it was upsetting him or something – I doubt he’d lie to Dean without good reason.”

Harry nodded. Now instead of being angry, he was concerned – was someone trying to blackmail Sam somehow? What could possibly keep Sam away from his brother for so long?

“I should try to get in touch with Dean,” Harry said. “And write Malfoy.”

“What did Malfoy want to do anyway?” Ron said. “He’s not about to start using dark magic, is he?”

Harry shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that. Don’t worry. It’s Malfoy – he’s not exactly the impulsive type. He’s all suggestions, but he isn't about to put himself in danger for someone else's sake.”

“Git,” Ron muttered.

“Hey, give me ten minutes to write some letters, and then I’ll join you in the kitchen for a celebratory drink, yeah?" Harry suggested. "I don’t want to distract Teddy from his exams, but unlike some people,” Harry waved the letter, “I think it’d be kind of cruel to keep this news to myself.”

“I’ll go break out the good wine,” Ginny smiled, and kissed Harry on the cheek. “Plus, we’ve just left five children all alone for twenty minutes, I shudder to think of the state of my living room.”

Harry laughed as Ron and Hermione both scrambled out of the room to go check on the kids. There was very little damage children could do in a wizard household that wasn’t reversible with some good spell-work, but that didn’t necessarily mean that you could let children run amok.

In his head, Harry compiled a list of people he needed to write to immediately – Draco, Teddy, George, Professor McGonagall...

First though, he pulled the sleek flip mirror out of his pocket and tried calling Dean.

There was no answer.

*

“Do you think unicorns are going to be on the written portion of the exam?” Iggy asked Penelope, just as Teddy sat down for breakfast.

“Florence thinks so,” Penelope replied. “We’ve been studying together.”

“I hope not,” Nate said. “I know loads more about Threstals. Pass the jam down to Teddy. He needs a little sugar to wake up in the morning.”

“You say the sweetest things,” Teddy smiled.

Jam and bread miraculously appeared in front of him, and Teddy tucked in with his usual enthusiasm.

There was a hoot from the open window near the ceiling and the morning post flew into the room a second after. Some students subscribed to the Daily Prophet, and Teddy knew some of the graduating students were awaiting replies on employment applications. Teddy was only a little surprised to see Muffin swoop down and land gracefully on the table. Muffin then carefully placed a white envelope on Teddy’s plate next to his jammy toast.

“Hello Fin,” Teddy said. “What’s this then?”

Teddy recognised Harry’s handwriting right away – so, it wasn’t just that James, Albus, or Lily, had drawn him a picture, which was usually the sorts of thing that Muffin delivered. Teddy had three years worth of crudely drawn pictures at the bottom of his trunk.

Muffin bobbed his head excitedly, and Teddy noticed that nearly the whole table was glancing at him curiously – ‘Yes,’ Teddy thought, ‘The great Harry Potter writes to his godson on occasion just like any other godfather would, thank you.’

He slid the envelope open and kept the paper close to his chest as usual while he read. Then he reread. Then he took a deep breath and pinched his own leg under the table – and then read it for a third time.

“Teddy? What is it?” Andy asked cautiously. Teddy swallowed.

“It’s... good news,” Teddy said.

“What sort of good news?” Iggy asked. “Because you look a little...um...”

“Sam’s alive,” Teddy said, and he smiled, and he felt his hair go blond and pink in happiness, and his eyes turn green. “Sam’s back, and he’s... he’s alive.”

“How...?”

“What...?”

Teddy looked across the table at Nate, who sat there with wide disbelieving eyes, and he did the first thing that came to mind, which was scramble over the table and tackle Nate to the ground in a hug – which didn’t seem like nearly enough, so he kissed him on the cheek for good measure. Then Teddy sat back, and thrust the now crinkled letter in front of Nate’s dazed face.

“See!” Teddy explained.

“Mr. Lupin!” Professor MacMillan’s voice suddenly came from beside him, and Teddy realized that the great hall had at some point erupted in noise – probably the point where Teddy tackled a fellow student to the ground. “What’s the meaning of this? What did Mr. Lewin possible do to-“

Teddy smiled up at Professor MacMillan, who seemed a bit confused as to what was going on.

“They aren’t fighting,” Iggy said frantically. “Look at his hair! It’s fine!”

“I got some good news!” Teddy said. “Nate’s happy too!”

“Yes, I’m sure he is,” Professor MacMillan sighed, “but this is still not appropriate behaviour for the breakfast table.”

“Sorry,” Teddy laughed, and got off Nate. Nate was still reading the letter with wide eyes, but quickly scrambled up after Teddy and then gave Teddy a proper non-flying hug.

Teddy saw Vicky standing on the bench at the Gryffindor table, trying to see over everyone’s heads as to what was going on.

“VICKY!” Teddy yelled, taking the letter from Nate and waving it over his head as though Vicky would understand what it said just by seeing it. “SAM’S OKAY NOW!”

“What do you mean?” Professor MacMillan asked in such an oddly stern voice that the smile dropped off Teddy’s face.

“Harry says – see!” Teddy thrust the letter at Professor MacMillan, and smiled at him.

“How?” Professor MacMillan said under his breath. “This is impossible – how did- even Harry couldn’t have... could he?”

“Harry didn’t do anything,” Teddy said. “He says so in the letter – Sam just came back. He came back because... because... everyone loved him... and um... he wasn’t supposed to die, I guess.” The smile slipped from Teddy’s face a little, and he tried to keep his appearance steady, but he wasn’t sure if he was successful. “It’s okay if someone survives, Professor, it doesn’t mean... Just because other people don’t survive, doesn’t mean that they didn’t deserve to, either. It’s okay to survive. You shouldn’t make him feel bad, just because he’s okay and other people are dead. We don’t get to chose, and I wouldn’t want to. It’s good news, Professor, I promise.”

“Of course, Teddy, of course,” Professor MacMillan said, and then pressed the letter back into Teddy’s hand. “This is very good news, I’m happy for you and Sam’s family.” Professor MacMillan then looked at Teddy oddly for a moment, “Merlin, you look just like him when you-"

“Let me read it!” Vicky said from beside Teddy, pulling on his arm. Teddy turned and smiled at her. Nate reached over and ruffled his hair, and Teddy was surprised to feel it turn thicker and darker under his touch – black now, Teddy thought, black and turquoise – he wondered what colour it had been while he had been talking to Professor MacMillan.

Teddy gave Vicky the letter. He clapped Iggy and Andy on the backs, as he sat back down to finish breakfast. The murmuring in the great hall slowly dimmed as the students realized that nothing really interesting was going on – and the news was about someone they didn’t even know, or well, didn’t realize that they knew. Vicky sat with them as they finished up breakfast, and Teddy tried to just appreciate the moment – for once, and probably only this once, someone he cared about had been brought back from the dead.

 


	3. Chapter 3

It was a Saturday morning. Harry had just finished cleaning up after breakfast. James and Albus were already in the living room, getting along for the time being while they played with a very elaborate Lego set that Dudley had bought James for his birthday.  
  
There was a knock at the door.  
  
Harry looked over at Ginny, but Ginny just shrugged. Not many people used the door, though Bill or Charlie sometimes did, if they found themselves in London unexpectedly. Harry had told the boys not to answer the door themselves, so they were instead pressed up against the front window, trying to see who was standing on porch. All three kids crowded behind Harry as he made his way to the door and swung it open.  
  
Dean Winchester was standing on his front stoop. Behind him, just down the front steps, was Sam.  
  
“Hello Harry,” Dean said, smiling. “We were just in the neighbourhood and thought we’d stop by to say hey.”  
  
“Hello,” Sam said.  
  
“Hi,” Harry said stupidly, then his brain clicked into gear. “What the hell are you doing in Britain? I’ve been trying to get in touch... Why didn’t you call? How did you get here? Oh what am I saying... come in, come in!”  
  
Harry nearly tripped over his own children as he backed up to let Dean and Sam inside. All the kids seemed to be peering out from behind Harry’s legs and back – depending on height.  
  
“Oh wow, is that Lily?” Dean said, dropping to his haunches just as he had when he had first met James and Albus. “Look how big you are! You probably don’t remember me, but I met you when you were very little.”  
  
“I’m five,” Lily said, coming out from behind Harry a little.  
  
“Yeah? Wow,” Dean said, then he looked up at Albus and James. “Wow, you guys got big too! How old are you?”  
  
“Eight!” James said. “Ally is seven.”  
  
“I can say it myself!” Albus said from beside James, but when both Dean and Sam looked over at him, he darted shyly behind Harry again.  
  
“Okay, let Sam and Dean into the house guys, come on, back to the living room,” Harry ordered, and then kids lead the way into the sitting area – which Harry now realized was covered in toys and lego. “Um, sorry about the mess, we weren’t expecting company...”  
  
“Ooo, cool Lego guys!” Dean said smiling at James.  
  
“It’s mine! Cousin Dudley gave it to me,” James said.  
  
“Sam, Dean, it’s so lovely to see you!” Ginny swooped in and gave both the Winchesters a hug. Dean smiled warmly at her, and Sam smiled too, but... Harry mentally shook his head - Sam had always held himself a bit back, it was nothing. “Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee?”  
  
“A coffee would be great, thanks,” Dean said. “Still a bit jet-lagged, we only just got in umm... yesterday? No, the day before? See, jet-legged!” Dean finished with a self-deprecating chuckle.  
  
Sam declined a drink and Ginny disappeared into the kitchen.  
  
Now that Harry looked, he could see how tired Dean looked, a little worn – no, a lot worn. For some reason Harry had always thought that whenever he saw Dean again, now that Sam was back, he would look happy and healthy, not just as tired and stressed as he had looked when the world was coming to an end. Harry looked over at Sam expecting him to look the same – only Sam looked fine. Well rested and without a care in the world. It was oddly more discomforting, rather than the welcome sight it should have been.  
  
“Did you take a plane? Why didn’t you call? What are you even doing over here?” Harry asked.  
  
“Last minute thing, and that mirror you gave me is... um, well, I didn’t have it on me at the time,” Dean said.  
  
“We had to find some bones up in Scotland,” Sam said. “Bobby needed help with a little demon problem.”  
  
“Is he okay?” Harry asked.  
  
“Yeah, we talked to him on the drive back down here – everything is fine,” Dean smiled.  
  
“Good, I’m glad,” Harry said. “Now, how long are you in Britain? Do you already have your flight home booked?”  
  
“We leave tonight,” Sam said. “Dean just thought we should say hello since we had a day to kill in London.”  
  
“Oh,” Harry said. Slightly hurt at the matter-of-fact tone of Sam’s voice. He didn’t miss that Sam implied that Dean was the one that wanted to visit.  
  
Ginny appeared with a coffee for Dean, herself, and Harry – thus saving the moment of awkwardness.  
  
“That was quick,” Dean smiled.  
  
“Magic,” Ginny winked.  
  
“Mm, you spoil us,” Dean said, as he took a sip.  
  
“So, what did I miss?” Ginny asked.  
  
“The guys were just telling me that they had business to attend to in Scotland, and were leaving for America tonight,” Harry said.  
  
“So soon?” Ginny asked, disappointed. Dean opened his mouth as if to apologize, but Sam beat him to it.  
  
“No rest for the wicked,” Sam winked.  
  
Ginny gave him a smile, but seemed as disconcerted as Harry felt. There was definitely something wrong here. Bobby did say that Sam was different since coming back from Hell, so maybe this odd hollow persona was just a strange manifestation of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  
  
“Sam,” Harry said. “It  _is_  good to see you – we were so.... I mean, have you been able to discover how it was that you’ve returned at all?”  
  
Sam shook his head and shrugged, as if he didn’t even care to know.  
  
“Cas doesn’t even know,” Dean said. “And as far as we’ve read, angels are the only things powerful enough – but the odds that they could get into the cage – let alone get out again with Sam-”  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Sam said. “I’m out. I’m hunting again.”  
  
“Of course,” Harry said.”We’re all very thankful regardless.”  
  
“So, I guess Ted’s in school, right?” Dean said.  
  
“Yes, he just started his fourth year,” Harry smiled. “He’s not even my son, yet he still manages to make me feel old.”  
  
Dean laughed. “I hear ya, Ben’s just a few years younger than-”  
  
“I’ll uh, be right back-“ Sam said, gesturing to the stairs. “Sorry, I just – it was a long car-ride.”  
  
“Oh right,” Harry said. “Understood.”  
  
Harry couldn’t help but track Sam as he left the room. Sam walked by Harry’s children, who Harry had assumed were all playing with the Lego set on the floor – but instead discovered that although they were sitting next to the Lego, they weren’t actually playing with it. Instead, James had Lily tucked behind him, her hand in his and all three were eyeing the room warily.  
  
His attention turned back to Dean, who sighed and seemed to relax slightly into the couch, as though he were only just arriving. It was all rather confusing.  
  
Ginny drew her wand and muttered a muffling charm at the doorway, and then turned to Dean.  
  
“How is he really?”  
  
“He says he’s fine,” Dean shook his head. “He... seems... fine, but...”  
  
“Something is off,” Harry finished.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean said. “I guess... I guess he’s still dealing or something? I tried to talk to Bobby about it, but he, uh, it was a bad time – so yeah, I was hoping now that we’ve helped Bobby with his problem, maybe-”  
  
Dean cut himself off, as Lily came over and crawled up on the loveseat beside Ginny. James came to stand by Ginny as well. Harry wondered if the kids had perhaps had a very quiet fight and they hadn’t noticed. They seemed subdued and worried.  
  
“Hey James,” Harry said. “How’s the Lego-set coming?”  
  
“Okay,” James said.  
  
“Yeah? You’ll have to send a thank you card to Cousin Dudley, won’t you then?” Harry smiled.  
  
James rolled his eyes.  
  
“I hate thank you cards,” James said, but Harry’s attention was diverted because Albus had walked up to Dean and Albus’ question cut through the room like a finely sharpened blade.  
  
“Where’s Sam?”  
  
“Bathroom,” Dean said. “He’ll be right back.”  
  
“No,” Albus said, looking annoyed and confused. “Where’s  _Sam_?”  
  
“Albus, Sweetheart, Sam’s upstairs,” Ginny said. “You were very young when you met them, but you remember Dean and Sam, right?”  
  
Albus nodded.  
  
“Well, this is Dean, do you recognize him? Sam just went upstairs to use the bathroom. He’ll be right back,” Ginny said.  
  
Albus only looked more upset and frustrated.  
  
“I remember,” Albus said, and Harry could see they were minutes away a possible frustrated tantrum, “I remember Samdean, and... and...”  
  
“Shh,” Dean said suddenly, placing a hand on Albus’ shoulder. “Look at me, Ally, okay?”  
  
Albus turned to look at Dean, biting his lip and still looking confused and upset.  
  
“I’ll find Sam, okay? I promise,” Dean said softly, and smiled reassuringly at Albus. He then glanced up to where James and Lily were both watching the whole exchange with concern. “Why don’t you three go draw me pictures of what I’m missing and what I should be looking for, do you think you could do that? It would really help me out.”  
  
“Okay,” Albus said.  
  
“I can write words too,” James said proudly.  
  
“Awesome,” Dean smiled. “You guys are so smart and big now. Maybe you can help Lily, if she wants to put words on her pictures too.”  
  
“Okay,” James agreed. “Come on, Lily!”  
  
Lily seemed reluctant to detach herself from Ginny’s side, but James coaxed her away and all three kids retreated to the far corner of the room, armed with crayons and paper.  
  
“We should leave,” Dean said.  
  
“Oh please don’t,” Ginny said. “I’m sorry about Albus, I don’t know what got into him. He’s probably just confused because he was so young the last time you were here.”  
  
“He’s probably just misremembering,” Harry tried. “Don’t let it bother you.”  
  
“Kids and dogs, Harry,” Dean said, giving Harry an unimpressed look. “If there’s one thing Hunting has taught me, it’s that you should  _always_  listen to what children say. Also, don’t you read your own books?”  
  
Upstairs they heard a door shut.  
  
“Wha-” Harry tried to say.  
  
“Early Wizard Development,” Dean said. "In your books on parenting – the chapter on how to tell if your kid is a wizard.”  
  
Sam was halfway down the stairs now.  
  
“Why were you-” Harry started.  
  
“I wanted to be able to tell the difference between a Wizard kid and a Cambion,” Dean answered, as though Harry should have known.  
  
“A Cambion?” Harry asked, just as Sam walked into the room.  
  
“Why are we talking about cambions?” Sam asked. “Is there one here?”  
  
“No,” Dean smiled. “We were just talking about how crazy children’s imaginations can get. You remember that case, Sam?”  
  
“Of course,” Sam shrugged. “He got away.”  
  
“We weren’t going to kill him anyway, Sam,” Dean said.  
  
“Right, of course not, I know that,” Sam said. “But we could have used him.”  
  
“It worked out in the end,” Dean said. “It doesn’t matter. I just hope he’s alright, wherever he is.”  
  
Sam nodded - a look of sympathy and concern on his face – but, Harry couldn’t help but think that the expression looked oddly affected, not genuine.  
  
“So, it turns out that one of the downsides of surprising someone with a visit,” Dean said, turning to Sam, “is that they may already have plans.”  
  
“Oh?” Sam said, looking at Harry – and Harry couldn’t tell if Sam was disappointed or happy that Dean wasn’t planning to spend the day there.  
  
“Um, yeah,” Harry said. “Sorry – I could cancel, it’s just-”  
  
“Oh, no, I understand,” Sam said.  
  
“Do you want to go surprise Drake and Scorp?” Dean asked Sam.  
  
“Why?” Sam said.  
  
“Museum then?” Dean tried again.  
  
“Nah,” Sam said. “Let’s find an internet cafe and I’ll research another Hunt for us.”  
  
“Okay,” Dean replied, his expression carefully neutral. As Sam turned away to smile insincerely at Harry and Ginny, Harry watched as Dean’s expression fall into despair, before he carefully schooled it again.  
  
They made small talk for the rest of the short visit. Harry and Ginny did most of the talking, answering Dean’s questions about how the kids were doing, or how Teddy and his friends were doing at school. He asked after Ron, Hermione, and George as well. It was an extremely one-sided conversation, but then, everything Harry wanted to ask about Dean’s life couldn’t be asked with Sam in the room.  
  
They had just said their goodbyes to Sam at the door, when Dean interrupted.  
  
“Sam, why don’t you walk down to the main road and see if you can find us a cab,” Dean said. “I’ll catch up to you – I just gotta hit the head.”  
  
Sam nodded, and smiled a goodbye at Harry and Ginny, waving at the kids who still stood shyly behind their parents. Then Sam left, and it was as though he pulled all the tension out of the room with him.  
  
Dean immediately dropped down into a crouch and the children ran forward. They held out crudely drawn pictures with carefully written capital letters on them, and Dean smiled broadly and stacked all the pictures together.  
  
“Good kids, good kids,” Dean said. “Thank you.” He folded the pictures carefully and slid them into an inside pocket of his coat. He patted James on the shoulder, ruffled Albus’ hair, and kissed a shy Lily on the forehead.  
  
“Do you think you’re safe with him?” Harry asked, knowing they had limited time to talk.  
  
Dean straightened up and nodded.  
  
“I ran all the tests, Harry,” Dean said. “Holy water, silver... whatever is wrong with him, he’s still... he’s still my brother.”  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
“The mirror,” Dean said. “I left it in storage, I don’t know when I’ll be able to get to it.”  
  
“Take this one, just one second,” Harry said, taking out his own communication mirror and his wand. He carefully enchanted it to belong to Dean and Dean alone, while Ginny gave Dean a hug goodbye.  
  
“I have a mirror too,” Ginny said. “So does Ron – if you need help and you can’t get in touch with Harry for some reason-”  
  
“Thanks, Ginny,” Dean said. “If you need to get in touch with me for any reason, send a letter to Bobby and I’ll call as soon as I can. I uh, it’s not like I want to be doing stuff behind his back, but if Sam is just dealing with hell in a weird way, the last thing I want to do is hurt him. If he knew I might not trust-”  
  
“We understand,” Ginny says. “You’re just looking out for him.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean laughed. “He might not see it that way though.”  
  
“Send word as soon as you know anything,” Harry said, handing Dean the enchanted mirror.  
  
“I will,” Dean said. “Thanks for the help, guys.”  
  
As soon as Dean was out the door, and the kids settled back in the living room with their toys, Harry sprinted up to his study. His parenting books were on a low shelf in the far corner of the room. Harry sat cross-legged and quickly scanned the titles until he found  _Early Wizard Development_ \- a book that Hermione had gifted them back when they found themselves rather unexpectedly pregnant with James.  
  
Harry flipped to the chapter on how to tell if your child was a Wizard. The chapter started out with the usual explanations about genetics, then lead into the most obvious signs of accidental magic – things moving when the children were angry or scared, etc. Harry knew all this, and why on earth would being a wizard make a child more trust-worthy than-  
  
“Merlin’s beard,” Harry said.  
  
“What is it?” Ginny’s voice startled Harry. She was leaning in the open doorway. Harry hadn’t even heard her come up the stairs. “What does Dean Winchester know about Wizards that we don’t?”  
  
Harry cleared his throat.  
  
“ _Surprisingly, when a Wizard or Witch is born to Muggle parents, it is usually not incidents of accidental magic that alert them that they’re children are different from Muggle children,_ ” Harry read. “ _Many believe this is due to the fact that Muggles have no context with which to understand the existence of magic, and so excuse away any accidental magic as simple optical illusions or bizarre coincidences. It is, however, the heightened intuition of muggleborn Wizards and Witches that their parents later claim was the first sign that their children were unique. In various studies, Muggles most often used the term “psychic” when describing their young Wizard children – referring to an ability that Muggles can possess, or feign to possess, that grants them the ability to read minds or foresee future events. Studies show that Wizard children have a heighten intuition, and indeed can sometimes display the same abilities as true Seers, in the early stages of their development. This “psychic” ability seems to reach its height at five or six years of age. In 90% of cases, it will then steeply taper off until disappearing completely by the time the children have reached adulthood._ ”  
  
Harry looked up to find Ginny starring at him. He thought back to his own childhood – how he constantly dreamt of events that he should never have been able to remember. He had never even considered what that meant.  
  
“We both read that book Harry – did you ever read that chapter?” Ginny asked.  
  
“No,” Harry said, “You?”  
  
“No,” Ginny said. “It didn’t matter to me if our children were wizards or squibs – it’d be an insult to Fred, to Colin, to all of them...”  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
“All those bad dreams that Albus-”  
  
“We told him they were just dreams,” Harry closed his eyes, realizing the truth.  
  
“We never even asked,” Ginny said.  
  
“We’ll start now,” Harry said. “We’ll ask, but... maybe it’s better that we didn’t know – if he believes that they’re only dreams. We can’t be sure that they aren’t.”  
  
“We can’t be sure that they are either,” Ginny said. “I wish I had looked at the pictures before Dean took them.”  
  
“I’ll ask him, if he calls,” Harry said, standing and moving over to his desk.  
  
“You know,” Ginny said. “I foolishly believed that the day we saw those two reunited would be a joyous occasion.”  
  
“Me too,” Harry said, “but then, nothing is ever so simple when it comes to Winchesters.”


	4. Chapter 4

“I told you,” Draco said, when he resurfaced from Harry’s pensieve. “I told you it couldn’t be what it seemed!”  
  
“Based on conjecture from a known Death Eater – who should  _not_  have been privy to the knowledge that you even  _know_  the Winchesters,” Harry bit back. “Forgive me for not immediately traveling to America to tell Dean Winchester that his brother wasn’t real!”  
  
“Just because he bore the mark-”  
  
“Enough,” Harry cut him off. “For once in our lives can we at least _try_ to focus and not descend into fruitless arguments?” Draco glared at him, but Harry just took a deep breath and continued. “What is your opinion on the memory?”  
  
“That man,” Draco said, pointing at the pensieve, “was  _not_  Sam Winchester.”  
  
“And why not?” Harry asked.  
  
“He wasn’t... he seemed... no, he was...” Draco tried, but he didn’t know how to voice what he had felt.  
  
“Try to describe your reaction to seeing him in the memory,” Harry said.  
  
“He made my skin crawl. He did not seem capable of the care and affection that I know him to possess. I wanted him out of your house – away from your children. It was a similar feeling to when The- to when Voldemort resided in my own house,” Draco said. “As though deep down I knew there was something horribly wrong, though I could not rationally explain it.”  
  
“You couldn’t rationally explain why Voldemort was horrible?” Harry asked incredulously.  
  
“I was raised to believe otherwise,” Draco sneered. “Forgive me for not being able to discard my entire belief system overnight. Also, kindly don’t ask questions if you are only going to ridicule me upon hearing my answers!”  
  
“Right, sorry,” Harry replied.  
  
Draco resumed pacing the small cabin. Outside, the moors seemed to stretch on endlessly into the night. It wasn’t easy for Draco and Harry to meet. It was better politically for Harry to stay well away from former Death Eaters, no matter how reformed they may appear to be. Furthermore, Draco and Harry still had the odd ability to end up at each other’s throats when they did converse – though, Draco thought that the times they actually got along were even more disturbing.  
  
It hadn’t been that long since a small owl had arrived at Draco’s house, informing him that Harry had seen the Winchesters, but something wasn’t right. It took a few days for Harry to respond to Draco’s request for more information – and when he did, it had been in the form of a small note with latitude and longitudinal coordinates, a picture of a rustic cabin, and a date and time.  
  
“Sam Winchester lives,” Draco said. “He did say that Sam Winchester lives...”  
  
“I thought we agreed, we wouldn’t talk about-”  
  
“His past does not negate his abilities!” Draco all but yelled. “Voldemort used him for a reason!”  
  
“And since when do you believe in that rubbish anyway?” Harry said.  
  
“I highly doubt you’d be calling it rubbish if your precious Centaur had told you the same!” Draco said. “Is my only mistake going to a pure-blood? Would you believe me if I had the same information from some drunken half-breed mudblood?!”  
  
“Mind your language,” Harry reprimanded.  
  
“Mind your prejudices,” Draco replied.  
  
“I don’t have to work with you, you know,” Harry said.  
  
“Nor I with you,” Draco said. “But I thought that for the sake of the Winchesters it may be better to pool our resources for once – or does their friendship rate less than your hatred for me?”  
  
“Of course not,” Harry replied.  
  
“Good,” Draco took a seat on the other side of the small table, and an uncomfortable silence followed.  
  
“It’s unlike you,” Harry finally said, “getting so involved. I hadn’t thought that they had made such an impression on you-”  
  
“You think I’m a coward?” Draco asked.  
  
“No,” Harry said. “I just...”  
  
“Scorpius was...  _is_  quite fond of Sam,” Draco said. “And Dean defended me against my father. Although I was _concerned_  at the time, I appreciated the gesture.”  
  
“And by ‘concerned’, do you mean ‘terrified’?” Harry asked smiling. Draco levelled him with a glare, but it only made Harry’s smirk soften into something else. “The first time I met Dean Winchester, he held a knife to my throat and asked me to give him one good reason why he shouldn’t kill me. Believe me when I say, I know how terrifying that man can be.”  
  
“If you’ll remember, I was at the receiving end of his fist the first time I met him,” Draco said. “So, yes, I was a little terrified – but only for my father’s safety. And, to be honest, I was less concerned with Dean, and more concerned with the gun that Sam used to ‘diffuse’ the situation.”  
  
“You know,” Harry said. “Ron and I begged Dean and Sam to share that memory with us, but they refused.”  
  
“An act of friendship,” Draco replied. “I’m thankful.”  
  
“So,” Harry said, smiling again, “if I were to threaten your father at gunpoint, would you consider me your friend as well? Because I have to say – that wouldn’t be a hardship.”  
  
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Potter,” Draco deadpanned, and then took a deep breath. The reminiscing had managed to calm his agitated state. He wondered if Harry had done it on purpose, but decided that it was unlikely he was that clever.  
  
“Have you heard from Dean since? Did he tell you what the drawings were?” Draco asked.  
  
Harry nodded. Draco didn’t like how Harry’s expression made dread coil in his stomach.  
  
“He called to tell me that he had been wrong,” Harry said, “when he told me that he was safe.”  
  
“What’s happened?” Draco asked.  
  
“He’s all right,” Harry said. “He wouldn’t talk about it though – just that Sam had stood by and let something bad happened to him, and that he... couldn’t trust him.”  
  
“He’s frightened,” Draco guessed, remembering a certain boggart and Dean’s anguished fear.  
  
“I believe so, yes,” Harry nodded.  
  
“And the drawings? Were your children able to help at all?” Draco asked.  
  
“He said the drawings were of eyes, eyes and outlines of Sam – some with hearts drawn on the chest and some without,” Harry said, then smiled a little. “He said it was extraordinarily hard to stare into his brother’s eyes or check for a heartbeat without things getting ‘very weird very fast.’”  
  
“Eyes and hearts,” Draco repeated, thinking.  
  
“The most confusing bit was that my children didn’t sign their own names,” Harry said. “Half of the drawings were signed with the initials T.M. – sometimes reversed, sometimes not.”  
  
Silence fell, as Draco mulled over this new information. Between them, the memory in the pensieve rippled and swirled softly, both transmitting its own blue-tinted light, but also reflecting the golden light of the oil lamps that lit the cabin.  
  
Draco was unsure how much time had passed, when he looked up at Harry – a memory and a theory suddenly combining in his head.  
  
“Your children, they’ve only just learned to write?” Draco asked.  
  
“James has been writing for a while now, Albus less so – Lily just copies the shapes of the letters, she can’t yet read,” Harry said. “They’re very bright children though.”  
  
“Of course,” Draco said dismissively. “But, their spelling... they can’t be very good at it.”  
  
“It does tend to be phonetic,” Harry replied. “English is a very difficult language to-”  
  
“The Body,” Draco interrupted. “The old man said that The Body would come here.” Harry started to open his mouth, so Draco continued hurriedly. “Think about it, Harry. The tests that Dean runs, they test the body to make sure it’s human, and they test for possession of a demonic soul, but what if the body isn’t possessed at all, by  _anything_? What if it’s empty? What if your children were trying to write ‘empty’ and were just getting it wrong? T.M., M.T. – backwards and forwards, trying to tell us that the soul of Sam Winchester wasn’t currently inside Sam Winchester’s body.”  
  
“That’s not – it’s not possible, Malfoy,” Harry said.  
  
“Why not?” Draco asked. “Voldemort was able to walk and talk with a severed and mutilated soul – who’s to say that Sam could not do the same? Listen Harry, I know you don’t trust anything that Seer told me, but pretend that it had been someone else for a second – that I’m someone else – think about what you would think if someone told you that Sam both lives and suffers. How can he do both at once? How can a body come visit you? It can only be done if he’s been split somehow – half of him on earth, and half of him still... trapped.”  
  
“You think that Sam is empty?” Harry asked. “But if there’s no soul – if Sam isn’t inside his body, then who is controlling it? How does it function?”  
  
“As any body functions,” Draco replied. “On its baser instincts, motivated by its own desires. It has a brain, so it must still have rationality – but it lacks the compassion and... everything... that made Sam who he was.”  
  
Draco watched Harry’s expression closely. He watched as Harry let go of his scepticism and genuinely considered the idea, and then watched as a Harry contemplation turned to fear.  
  
“What is it?” Draco asked.  
  
“Hypothetically,” Harry began slowly. “If there was a part of Sam’s body that was tainted... perhaps caused him to have a greater capacity for evil than most. And let’s say this part of him had been repressed his whole life, because his soul was good and strong and he was raised to put others before himself...”  
  
“Then, I would imagine, that without his soul, that part of his body would no longer be repressed,” Draco said. “What aren’t you telling me?”  
  
“Nothing,” Harry said, but he was already standing, vanishing the memory from the pensieve. “I have to go. I need to get in touch with Dean and unfortunately, for now, that’s a process that takes time.”  
  
“Is there something about Sam Winchester that I should know before I start my research?” Draco tried again.  
  
Harry looked up from where he was shoving the pensieve into his small shoulder bag, and fixed him with a cold determined look.  
  
“You only need to know that Sam Winchester is a good man, and if you’re right about what has happened to him, then he needs our help even more so now then he did a year and a half ago,” Harry said.  
  
Draco nodded. “I’ll begin researching the body-soul connection immediately – there must be a spell for reuniting the two. Unfortunately most of the research in that area concerns horcruxes, so I’ll have to be very careful that I’m not seen-”  
  
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Harry muttered.  
  
“What?” Draco asked. “That I’ll suddenly think it’s a great idea to start practicing dark magic?”  
  
“No,” Harry sighed. “The only way to repair a soul severed into horcruxes... well, it tends to result in death, from what I’ve read.”  
  
“Oh,” Draco said. “Well, then we should be glad that we aren’t dealing with horcruxes.”  
  
“Keep me informed,” Harry ordered. “And for the Merlin’s sake, no more dark wizards, no matter how helpful they are.”  
  
“Agreed,” Draco replied. “Send my regards to Dean.”  
  
Harry nodded. He and Draco stood across from each other in awkward silence for a moment, before Harry smiled, shook his head, and disappeared with a soft popping noise.  
  
*  
  
“Harry?”  
  
Harry reached into his pocket while he stood up, cutting off the report that Auror Smithson was giving. All eyes in the meeting looked to him, but Harry just gave Ron a nod, and said a quick “sorry” while he fled the room. He had flipped open the mirror and said, “I’m here” before the door had even swung shut behind him.  
  
“Bad time?” Dean asked. “I never know what time it is over there.”  
  
“The meeting was dreadfully boring anyway,” Harry said, walking quickly to his office. Zaf scrambled to her feet, but Harry waved a hand for her to sit back down. He held a finger up to the mirror and then turned and told her, “No disturbances, Zaf, unless it’s Mr. Weasley or someone’s died.”  
  
“Yes, Mr. Potter,” Zaf replied, looking vaguely spooked. Harry gave her a smile before he shut his office door – the wardings automatically falling behind him.  
  
“What happened to that other kid... Jonathan?” Dean asked.  
  
“Promoted a couple of months ago,” Harry said. “Did you get my letter?”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean said. “I heard from Bobby just after I had the same thing confirmed by Cas. I don’t know how you figured it out, but you were right.”  
  
“Draco put it together,” Harry said. “I showed him the memory, and told him about the drawings... and he... uh, pointed out how horrible children can be at spelling.”  
  
“M.T. means empty – yeah after Cas told me, I kicked myself for missing that,” Dean said. “You’ll have to tell Drake that he got it right. I bet he’ll love being smarter than you.”  
  
“In this case, I’m sure he’ll wish he had been wrong,” Harry said. “What did Castiel say?”  
  
“Just what you guys already figured out – Sam’s not home,” Dean said. “I’m stuck with this thing that looks like my brother, but he doesn’t sleep, and he’s incapable of feeling anything... I mean, like, emotionally.”  
  
“Castiel can’t help?” Harry asked.  
  
“No,” Dean replied. Dean took a deep breath, looking sad and somehow defeated. “Um, after... after Cas did his angel thing on Sam, we went to see um... our grandfather. He was resurrected at the same time as Sam, so we thought... anyway, Castiel checked, but he has his soul. Then there was this thing with this Vampire and um, Crowley... uh, this demon... you know the one we were helping Bobby with when we came to visit? He uh, he showed up and um, well, apparently it was him that brought Sam and our grandfather back... and he says, uh, he says if we do what he says, he’ll give us Sam’s soul.”  
  
“And what does he say?” Harry asked, his heart in his throat.  
  
“He wants monsters – like, alphas. The old ones, the ones that came first... or just, or just monsters that can lead to them. He uh, he tortures them for information – he wants to find purgatory. I don’t know why. He says it’s like real-estate, or maybe imperialism. He wants to expand his territory. He’s... he’s the King of Hell currently, and I guess he wants to be the King of Purgatory too.”  
  
“So, he wants you to hunt?” Harry asked.  
  
“Yeah, only, instead of ganking things – we bring them to him,” Dean replied. “And, um, if we bring him an alpha – or give him a good lead on Purgatory or something, then he’ll give Sam’s soul back.”  
  
“And how does he define a monster?” Harry asked. He watched as Dean gave him a look of confusion, before comprehension dawned.  
  
“No!” Dean said. “No, he doesn’t mean... wizards. I mean, you guys, you guys go to Heaven or Hell, right? You guys are like humans with a weird recessive gene or something – Sam said... the REAL Sam, back when we met you-”  
  
“And what about people like Teddy?” Harry asked. “Or Hagrid? Or Firenze? Where does the line start blurring?”  
  
“I’d never-” Dean protested. “Harry, you gotta believe me. I’d never let anything happen to Teddy, and I’d never go after-”  
  
“Even if it would get Sam’s soul back?” Harry asked. “If this demon told you tomorrow that centaurs knew where Purgatory was and all you had to do-”  
  
“No,” Dean said. “I... God, Sam would kill me if I... I’d find another way, Harry. I swear, I would.”  
  
“Okay, okay, Dean,” Harry said. “I believe you, I do. But how many other hunters does this demon have over a barrel? It’s my job to protect whole populations, Dean.”  
  
“You think I don’t know that? The last thing I want to fucking do is work for a fucking demon, Harry,” Dean said. “But what am I supposed to do? I can’t leave Sam the way he is.”  
  
“I know,” Harry said. “But you have us – we’ll figure something out, Dean, I promise you.”  
  
“Thanks,” Dean said. “But I gotta... I’m going to at least try. I mean, we managed to track one alpha... I could, if I just got one other, then maybe...”  
  
“Dean, don’t.”  
  
“Are you telling me that if someone had Ginny - or Ron or Teddy - you wouldn’t at least _try_?”  
  
“Not if it compromised what I or they believed in?” Harry said.  
  
“Yeah, well, Hunting doesn’t compromise anything,” Dean said.  
  
“Are you sure?” Harry asked. “The devil's in the details.”  
  
“Just... I just wanted to let you know what was what,” Dean said. “Call me if you find anything. You can just call straight now – Sam knows what’s going on. He uh, he wants his soul back too.”  
  
“Well, that’s good,” Harry said. “It’ll make things easier not to have to sneak up on him with it.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean said, but somehow seemed unconvinced. “Listen, I gotta go. I’ll call if anything happens.”  
  
“Dean, are you all right?” Harry asked.  
  
“Yeah, just tired,” Dean said. “Bye, man.”  
  
“Bye,” Harry said, and watched as the image in the mirror turned black and then simply reflected Harry’s own concerned face.


	5. Chapter 5

“We still return to the fundamental problem,” Hermione said, slamming a book closed in frustration. “All these spells are useless unless we  _have_  the soul. So, we’re back to where we were over a year and a half ago! How do we get Sam out of Lucifer’s cage?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Ron said, throwing the book he was reading onto the floor with the other rejects. “Why doesn’t one of us become God; that would solve all our problems.”  
  
“We’re all equally frustrated, Ron,” Hermione replied. “There’s no need for sarcasm.”  
  
Harry sighed. After the revelation about Sam, they had stepped up their meetings to weekly events again, only it had been several weeks and they were no better off than they had been before – though they did know a lot more about souls. Malfoy hadn’t come across anything either. Every few weeks, he would send Harry a page of references or spells for them to research, but, as Hermione so regularly pointed out, they were all useless without physically having the soul.  
  
“Okay, so, square one,” Harry said. “What or who is powerful enough to get Sam’s soul out of the cage?”  
  
“Not angels,” Hermione said. "Or I’m sure Castiel would have done it by now.”  
  
“I told you,” Ron said. “We need God.”  
  
“God isn’t an option, Ron,” Harry sighed. “Kindly only list viable options.”  
  
“Fine,” Ron glowered. “We need an equivalent of God.”  
  
“Fine,” Harry muttered. “I’ll write it on the list.”  
  
“How about Malfoy’s notes from last year,” Hermione said. “Let me see them.”  
  
“There’s not much here,” Harry said. “He kept most of his notes to himself.” Harry researched into his desk and pulled out a slim folder.  
  
“Harry?” a desperate voice suddenly said from his pocket. “Harry, are you there?”  
  
Harry dropped the folder, which opened and spilled its contents over Harry’s notebook. He quickly reached into his pocket and flipped open his mirror.  
  
“Here, Dean,” Harry said. “I’m here, so are Hermione and Ron.”  
  
“Harry,” Dean said. “It’s all gone to shit.”  
  
Dean was hard to see in the mirror. He seemed to be sitting in a dark room. Harry was looking up at him from an angle that suggested that Dean’s mirror was lying open on a table of some sort. One of Dean’s hands was propping up his head, the other was holding a glass of whiskey.  
  
“What’s happened?” Harry asked.  
  
“Crowley lied,” Dean said. “He couldn’t actually get Sam’s soul. So, Cas killed him – but he was our only lead and now... now Sam doesn’t want his soul back. So, I really am going to have to sneak up on him with it – only I don’t even know how to get it. And I gotta get it Harry, you don’t know what it’s like – what he’s like... I can’t-”  
  
Dean broke off and breathed out heavily before taking another swig from his glass.  
  
“Please tell me you guys have something,” Dean finished in a plea.  
  
Harry looked down at the pile of papers on his desk. There were a handful of different spells for soul-work, but that would involve having a soul to begin with – then there was his new list:

_People/Things That Can Rescue Sam:  
_

_1\. A God-Equivalent.  
_

_2._

  
Half on the list was a fallen piece of paper from Draco’s work: 

_He said ‘Life and Death’ would ‘only have to blink’, but were unlikely to get involved. I’m not sure what he meant, but he mentioned that they went by many names, so it’s a possibility he is not referring to the states of being, but rather sentient entities._

_Life=God?_

_Death=God’s opposite? Perhaps exactly as it sounds?”_

“I’ll take your prolonged silence as a no, then,” Dean said. Harry heard a muffled thump and looked back at the mirror in his hand, to find himself only able to see the side of Dean’s head, where he seemed to have buried it in his arm.  
  
“Dean, where are you?” Harry asked. He glanced up at Ron and Hermione, who were both staring at him, looking rather concerned and suspicious.  
  
“Bobby’s,” Dean’s said without raising his head.   
  
“And where is Sam right now?” Harry asked, focusing back on Dean.   
  
“Out getting herpes,” Dean muttered.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Sex,” Dean clarified, lifting his head.   
  
“Um, okay,” Harry said. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”  
  
“Hm, tomorrow morning, probably,” Dean said. “I made him promise to come back – not that it means anything, but I let him think the soul thing was negotiable, so maybe... and I still have all his stuff.”  
  
“Okay,” Harry said. “I’m going to arrive in a half an hour. I want you to sober up as much as you can, okay, Dean?”  
  
“What?” Dean asked. “Why?”  
  
“Just do it, Dean,” Harry said. “I’ll see you in a half-hour.”  
  
Harry snapped the mirror closed.  
  
“Harry...” Hermione said. “You’ve got that look...”  
  
“Could you get Ginny?” Harry said. “I don’t have much time and I don’t want to explain this more than once-”  
  
*  
  
When Bobby got back from the store, he wasn’t expecting to find Dean nursing a pot of coffee. All signs before he had left had been pointing to inevitable drunken pass-out.  
  
“You suddenly get a craving, or did something happen that I should know about?” Bobby asked, as he set the bags on the counter.  
  
“I gotta be sober in... five minutes?” Dean said, glancing a little blurry eyed at the clock. “But it took me fifteen minutes just to find some frickin’ coffee – had to get it from the car, man, you’re out.”  
  
Bobby lifted the fresh supersized tin of ground coffee out of the nearest grocery bag. “I thought I was going to have until morning before that became a problem.”  
  
“’S’okay,” Dean said. “My tongue’s numb anyway, can’t taste how shitty this coffee’s gotta be.”  
  
“Okay, now, why is it that you have to be sober in five minutes?” Bobby asked, wondering if he should bother taken off his jacket. “You driving somewhere?”  
  
“Harry says I gotta be,” Dean replied. “He’s coming over.”  
  
“Harry?”   
  
“Harry Potter,” Dean clarified. “You know, the little wizard dude? You’re pen-pals with one of his best friends - ringing any bells?”  
  
“Yes, I know who Harry Potter is,” Bobby said. “Why’s he coming here?”  
  
“I called him,” Dean muttered. “Told him about everything.”  
  
“I leave you alone for half an hour and you drunk-dial a wizard,” Bobby sighed and took off his jacket.   
  
“Shut-up,” Dean grumbled.  
  
There was a knock on the door. Dean’s only reaction was to start chugging his coffee, so Bobby moved to open it. He had spoken to Hermione about Harry of course, and the boys had told him a great deal as well – he had, in fact, conspired indirectly with Harry nearly two years previous, in order to get the Winchesters a vacation. Though, that had hardly turned out to be as relaxing as Bobby had hoped it would be. Still, he wasn’t quite prepared to see the famous wizard on his door step. He looked as young as Sam, and the boys hadn’t been kidding when they said he was small. Bobby had to remind himself that this kid was the saviour of an entire culture. Harry smiled at Bobby and held out a hand.  
  
“Hello, Mr. Singer,” Harry said. “I’m Harry. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I believe Dean is expecting me.”  
  
“Call me Bobby,” Bobby corrected automatically. “Come on in. Dean’s chugging coffee in the kitchen.”  
  
Bobby stood back and let Harry walk over the threshold – passing two of Bobby’s tests. Harry made a beeline for Dean, who actually straightened up like he was about to be inspected.   
  
“Hey Harry,” Dean said, his voice about as rough as he looked.  
  
“Dean,” Harry replied, and Bobby wished he could see his face, because Dean expression turned sorrowful and a little desperate. Harry reached into the bag that he had slung around his shoulder and pulled out an old fashioned tincture bottle.  
  
“Drink this,” Harry ordered.  
  
“Yes, sir,” Dean replied, uncapping the bottle and drinking it without question.  
  
“What is that?” Bobby asked, because someone had to keep some sense in their head.   
  
“Sobering potion,” Harry replied, without taking his eyes off of Dean. “I’m not doing this with Dean drunk.”  
  
“Doing what?” Bobby asked.  
  
“Three, two, one...” Harry counted down, and then Dean turned an odd shade of green, leaned over, and vomited what looked like a mouthful of water into the sink.  
  
“Ugh!” Dean groaned, running the tap and wiping his mouth off. “What the hell, Harry!?”  
  
“How do you feel?” Harry asked, smiling.  
  
“How do I feel?! I just threw up what tasted like-” Dean cut himself off and his eyes widened. Bobby could already see it – all the signs of alcohol consumption were gone. Dean looked like he hadn’t touched a bottle at all that day. Dean glanced back at the empty sink. “Did I just throw up pure alcohol?”  
  
“Not pleasant, I know,” Harry said, pulling a wrapped candy from his pocket. “Do you want a sweet?”  
  
“I am not eating anything else you give me!” Dean said. “Last thing I want to do after  _that_  is turn into Big Bird.”  
  
Bobby had the feeling he was missing something with that reference.  
  
“Fair enough,” Harry said, glancing past Bobby into the other room. “Let’s have a seat, shall we?”  
  
Dean and Bobby both followed Harry into the Bobby’s library. Bobby watched as Harry surveyed the room.  
  
“May I?” Harry asked, pulling out his wand. Bobby nodded, only then realizing that Harry had effectively taken over his house the moment he had walked into it: Dean had obeyed him just as fast as he used to obey his father, and even Bobby was having flashbacks to some of the men he served with in ‘Nam - The kind of guys who looked like nothing, but could have you on your ass quicker than you could say ‘sorry.’  
Bobby felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, as Harry muttered under his breath and swept his wand around a few times in a wide arc.  
  
“What exactly are you doing?” Bobby asked.  
  
“Checking your wards, and adding my own – I also made sure we were alone,” Harry said. “Then I added an area spell that will alert me if anyone approaches the house, and...” Harry flicked his wand again, “...no sound made in this room will travel outside of it.”  
  
“That’s mighty cautious of you,” Bobby said.  
  
“Nothing I am about to say to you can leave this room or your own confidence,” Harry said. “Is that understood?”  
  
“Yes,” Dean and Bobby both said.   
  
“Have a seat,” Harry slipped his wand into his sleeve, and sat in a chair in front of the desk. Bobby sat in his usual spot behind the desk, and Dean pulled up a chair and sat to one side.  
  
“What’s up, Harry?” Dean asked, “You’re kind of freaking me out here.”  
  
Harry took a deep breath and turned to Dean.  
  
“Have you ever heard of the Deathly Hallows?”  
  
*  
  
“...and then he gave the cloak to his eldest son, and went and greeted Death as an old friend,” Harry concluded. “Now, what people don’t know is the truth behind the children’s story. There  _does_  exist an elder wand or great power, a resurrection stone, and an invisibility cloak of such quality that its charm never fades, nor does it tear or disintegrate with time. These objects are collectively referred to as the Deathly Hallows... if one manages to possess all three simultaneously, they are said to be the Master of Death.”  
  
Dean’s mind was already running through various scenarios – if they got the stone, could they bring back Sam’s soul? Only, the woman who had been brought back in the story had been a faded version of herself – it seemed. But ‘Master of Death’ – what did that mean? Could the combination of all three give you some sort of super power?  
  
“The rumour has it, that the Master of Death would be immortal – but I doubt that. The wand is not unbeatable. After all, it’s passed to new owners through defeat. The resurrection stone may bring back loved ones, but you can hardly use it on yourself,” Harry added.  
  
“So, why are you telling us this?” Dean asked.  
  
“When Draco was doing his research, he came upon a resource that seemed to suggest that there were two beings in the universe who could very easily get Sam out of the cage,” Harry said. “We believe Death might be one of them.”  
  
“Death?” Dean asked. “As in the Horseman?”  
  
“Yes,” Harry nodded. “The source also seemed to say that Death would not get involved, but what if... what if there was something in it for him?”  
  
Harry reached into his shoulder bag and drew out a cloak. Dean had seen it only once before – back in Boston, when Harry had hidden under it while they broke into the Department of Mysteries.  
  
“This cloak has been passed down in my father’s family for generations,” Harry said, placing the folded cloak carefully on top of Bobby’s desk. “If the story of the three brothers is word for word true, then this cloak is made from Death’s own.”  
  
“You...” Dean said, staring at the shimmering material lying innocently in front of him. “This is one of the Hallows? You have one?”  
  
“I was the Master of Death for a few months when I was seventeen,” Harry said. “I can get the wand too – though, I’d prefer not to. I know where it is. The stone is lost. I lost it on purpose. I know where to look for it, but I don’t want to. It’s too great a temptation, as I’m sure you can understand.”  
  
“So, let me get this straight,” Bobby said. “Your plan is to make a deal with Death?”  
  
Dean watched as Harry grimaced at how it sounded. He had to admit, it sounded like certain previous plans that hadn’t necessarily worked out to anyone’s advantage.  
  
“Not a deal, an exchange,” Harry said. “You offer him the cloak in exchange for Sam’s soul. If it’s not enough, if he wants more...I could tell you the location of the wand, and the general location of the stone as well. Of course, there may be a small problem-”  
  
“And what’s that?” Bobby asked.  
  
“Well, there’s a chance that the story isn’t true word for word,” Harry said, running his fingertips over the edge of the cloak. “We know the Hallows exist, but there’s no evidence that Death had anything to do with their creation. The Peverell Brothers, my ancestors and the first owners of the Hallows, were very powerful wizards. There’s a possibility that they simply created the Hallows themselves and the legend was invented because no one could believe such items could be man-made.”  
  
“So, it might not even be a bargaining chip at all?” Dean concluded.   
  
“Even if it’s not Death’s own cloak,” Harry persisted. “It’s still a powerful magical relic – as is the wand and the stone. It might be enough to get his attention. Even if he only shows up to tell us that it’s a load of rubbish, he still might show up – and then maybe we could plead our case to him and he’d... I don’t know. I just... it’s the only idea I have.”  
  
Dean nodded and carefully picked up the cloak. It was silky under his fingers, the light shimmering off it oddly, yet beautifully. Carefully, he lifted one of the folds and held it out. He slipped his hand underneath and watched as the cloak seemed to disappear along with his hand, showing only Bobby’s dusty floor.  
  
“Mind you, I don’t know how to summon Death, but I thought maybe... well, maybe you’d know that part,” Harry said. “Or it’d only be a matter of research, anyway.”  
  
“Mm, yeah, looked into it last year,” Bobby said. “Any reaper can summon Death, which means that all you have to do is contact a reaper. It’s hard, but not impossible. A powerful enough psychic, or you could always go with the last resort, which is creating an artificial near-death experience.”   
  
“Hey Bobby, could you make another pot of coffee?” Dean asked. “My mouth tastes like a hospital.”  
  
Bobby eyed Dean, as Dean knew that he would, but he nodded and left the room.  
  
“So, uh, this was your father’s?” Dean asked.  
  
“Yes,” Harry said.  
  
“Do you have anything else of your father’s?” Dean asked, looking up at Harry.  
  
“Um, I’ve got his hair and devil-may-care attitude,” Harry laughed. Dean smiled weakly, and Harry’s jovial smile dimmed into something softer. “No, that’s all that I have.”  
  
“How about your mom? Do you have anything of hers?” Dean asked.  
  
“I’ve got my mother’s eyes,” Harry smiled.   
  
“I’ve got my mother’s eyes too,” Dean replied, “and my father’s car and leather jacket. Harry, are you really giving me your father’s magic cloak, just so that I can get my brother back?”  
  
“Yes,” Harry said.   
  
“It’s a family heirloom, Harry,” Dean pressed. “It’s all you have left-”  
  
“No,” Harry said. “At the end of the day, it’s just an invisibility cloak. It’s not all I have left of my family, because I have James, Albus, and Lily. I have Ginny. I have Ron and Hermione. I even have this friend named Sam who was willing to suffer eternal torment, just so that billions of people he had never met, who meant nothing to him, could live.” Harry smiled, and then said softly and slowly, “If all I have to do is give away one little magical relic to save him – that’s exactly what I’m going to do. It’s not up for debate, Dean.”  
  
“Thanks,” Dean nodded and swallowed. “It’s a good idea. Thank you, Harry. It’s – I can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself.”  
  
“It might not work,” Harry said.  
  
“That doesn’t matter,” Dean replied. “Thank you for thinking of it. Thank you for this,” Dean placed a careful hand on the folded cloak and handed it back to Harry. “But I won’t be needing it.”  
  
“What?” Harry said. “Dean! I told you, it doesn’t matter-”  
  
“I already have something that I  _know_  belongs to Death,” Dean said. “I have his ring.”  
  
“What?” Harry asked, paling. “How is that possible, I-”  
  
“The rings of all four Horsemen are the keys to Lucifer’s cage,” Dean said. “We had to collect them last year in order to trap him again. I met Death in Chicago. He was on our side then, I’m hoping he’ll be on our side now too.”  
  
“You’ve met Death?” Harry said, his eyes wide.  
  
“It was the most terrifying piece of pizza I've ever had,” Dean smiled.  
  
*  
  
Dean told Harry about the weeks leading up to Lucifer’s capture a year and a half before, while they drank their coffees. Harry was finally able to connect the dots between the news reports and the Winchesters’ plan. He had meant to ask, of course, as soon as he had heard of their success – but then the news of Sam’s death had come instead, and suddenly how exactly it all happened hadn’t mattered anymore. All that had mattered was rescuing Sam.  
  
Bobby reminisced about an attack he, Sam, and Castiel had made on a factory, while Dean had been off in Chicago meeting with Death. They spoke about Sam as though he were dead, not just out at a bar, or picking up a girl, or wherever his body actually was at the moment. Harry couldn’t fault them for it of course, in his opinion, it didn’t matter if his body could talk or not, Sam was still missing.  
  
When Dean finished his coffee, he pulled out an old leather journal and flipped directly to a particular page, and then pulled out his mobile phone and pressed a series of buttons. Harry watched as Bobby raised an eyebrow and frowned.  
  
“Dean?” Bobby asked.   
  
“I’m gonna hit the road,” Dean said, putting the phone away again. “I gotta make myself an appointment with a reaper.”  
  
“Dean,” Bobby repeated. “What are you planning? Pamela was the only one I knew who could...”  
  
“It’s alright,” Dean said. “I know someone.”  
  
“Who?” Bobby asked.  
  
“You remember I told you about Tessa?” Dean said. “If I can summon her, then she could-”  
  
“Only the dead can summon a reaper, Dean,” Bobby said.  
  
“Yeah, well, that’s not a problem,” Dean said. “Come on, Harry, I’ll walk you out.”  
  
“Dean!” Bobby said. “What the hell are you planning?”  
  
Harry couldn’t move for the tension in the room, but then all Dean did was look pleadingly at Bobby for a solid few seconds, and Bobby sighed.  
  
“I’m not looking to die, Bobby, I swear,” Dean added.   
  
“Yeah, well, what do I tell your brother?” Bobby asked.  
  
“Tell him I needed a day or two, and I’ll be right back,” Dean said. “He won’t care. Tell him to go get a motel room and have some fun and I’ll call him.”  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Bobby said. “You gotta promise to come back though.”  
  
“Can’t make promises like that and you know it,” Dean replied. They all stood then, and Harry felt a little awkward as Bobby rounded the desk and pulled Dean into a fierce hug.   
  
“Idiots, the pair of you,” Bobby muttered as he pulled back, then he turned to Harry and held out his hand. “It was nice to meet you, Harry.”  
  
“It was nice to meet you too, sir,” Harry said.  
  
“Come on. I’ve got some ground to cover if I want to be where I’m going,” Dean said.  
  
Harry took one last look around Bobby Singer’s house as he followed Dean out through the backdoor. It was amazing how much it seemed to suit the Winchesters. Harry could tell that the house had, at some point, been well maintained and cared for, and now it was lined with mythology books and weaponry – still cared for, but only in bare-bones practical way. Dean seemed at home here, in an old house surrounded by scrap-metal. It made Harry wonder where he had been living while Sam had been away.  
  
Dean stopped by his car and held out his hand to Harry, which Harry grasped without thought, and then was surprised when Dean used it to pull him into a one-armed hug. Dean thumped him twice on the back and then released him.  
  
“Thanks for everything, Harry,” Dean said. “I don’t know what I would have done without- well, you know... you be sure to thank Ron, Hermione, and Drake for me too, okay?”  
  
“Certainly, Dean,” Harry said. “But...what exactly are you planning? I could come too – maybe if the ring isn’t enough-”  
  
“Harry,” Dean cut him off, smiling sadly, “take a lesson from your ancestor – don’t go to meet Death, unless you’re prepared to die.”  
  
Harry looked back towards the porch, where Bobby was leaning against the inside door jam watching them, and then back at Dean.   
  
“And you?” Harry asked. Dean gave him a confused look. “Are you prepared to die?”  
  
Dean grimaced and racked a hand through his short hair.  
  
“Harry... I know it’s fucked up,” Dean said. “But when I thought he was back - I loved Lisa and Ben, and I thought, all things considered, that I was doing alright. But it wasn’t my life, I didn’t... I didn’t belong there. I wasn’t happy, not like I was when I thought Sam... and they deserve better than that. I just... I can’t live like this anymore. I gotta save him, or die trying, and yeah, it breaks the promise – but I can’t... I tried, but I can’t... not without him.”  
  
“I feel like I showed up at your door with an elaborate suicide plan. Some friend I am.”  
  
Dean huffed a laugh and shook his head.  
  
“Besides Cas, man,” Dean said, “you’re the best friend I got that ain’t some sort of family. That thing claiming to be my brother has nearly gotten me killed so many times in the past six months... and hey, at least you’ll be sad to see me go.”  
  
“That’s not funny, Dean,” Harry said.  
  
“Yeah, well... I’ll be fine,” Dean said. “I’ll call you, okay?”  
  
Harry nodded, and then stepped back as Dean opened his car door and slipped into the Impala. He stood there while Dean gave him a wink and a wave and drove away in a cloud of dust. This was the problem with all Harry’s eleventh hour plans – they tended to involve the very real possibility of death, which never instilled much confidence.  
  
“Do you hate me?” Harry asked loud enough to be heard.  
  
“Not yet,” Bobby Singer replied. Harry nodded, turning to face the man.  
  
“Let me know if you change your mind,” Harry said. Bobby nodded.  
  
Harry pulled a paperweight out of his shoulder bag, looked once more at the empty road, and then braced himself for an unpleasant journey.  
  
“ _Portus_ ”


	6. Chapter 6

An interoffice memo glided onto Till’s desk just as he was finishing the first item in the pile of paperwork. He glanced up and looked over at the others in the room, wondering if it was a general missive of some sort, but no one else had a paper crane on their desk, and no one else seemed to have noticed that he did. The crane fluttered its wings in impatience. Till lifted it carefully into his palm and watched it unfurl itself into a square piece of paper with careful writing on it.  


_Till,  
Please report to my office at earliest convenience.  
HP_

  
Till carefully slipped the note in his pocket and stood. Peterson across the way looked up at the movement, but Till just ducked his head and smiled. Peterson smiled back and resumed his work.  
  
Till didn’t speak much, and most people were used to it. Since moving to Britain, Till was a little self-conscious about his accent. When he had been at Durmstrang, he was considered soft-spoken and almost feminine in his speech, yet amongst English speakers, even in his soft voice, his accent seemed to make his words sound too blunt. In his homeland, he was teased for being too soft, and in his adopted land, he was self-conscious about not being soft enough.  
  
Despite his tall, thin frame and bright blond hair, Till found he had a unique ability to pass through a room silently and unnoticed. So, it wasn’t surprising to him that no one paid him much mind as he walked down the small corridor to Harry’s office.  
  
“Hi Till,” Zaf greeted. “Mr. Potter says for you to go straight in.”  
  
“Do you know why he wants to see me?” Till asked.  
  
Zaf shook her head and pursed her lips, then seemed to come to a conclusion.  
  
“He said, um...no one is allowed into his office until you come out. No matter how long you are in there for.”  
  
Till frowned, more confused than he was before.  
  
“Thank you,” Till said. He knocked on Harry’s door first, before opening it – despite what Zaf said, he couldn’t bring himself to just waltz into Harry Potter’s office as though he had every right to.  
  
When he poked his head through the door, Harry smiled at him from behind his desk.  
  
“That was quick! Let me guess: paperwork?” Harry greeted. Till nodded, coming fully into the room and closing the door quietly behind him. “Have a seat,” Harry smiled, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.  
  
Till sat gratefully. He towered over Harry when they were standing, and if Harry was sitting, it was even worse. He didn’t like it. Harry was... Harry Potter. Till felt that being taller than him was disrespectful somehow, even though most everyone was.  
  
“Tell me about your education and training, Till,” Harry said, still smiling as though he were very pleased to see him.  
  
“I was taught at Durmstrang, Sir,” Till said. “I specialized in Potions, Charms, and Herbology. I achieved all my levels with uh...very high marks.” Harry nodded, Till took this as a good sign and carried on. “After I finished school, I train at most largest Wizard hospital in my country, to become Healer, Sir.”  
  
“And what brought you here?” Harry asked. “We have a reference from your superior at the hospital that says you were an excellent Healer. If that’s incorrect, why did you leave?”  
  
“It’s correct,” Till reassured quickly, “I am a very good Healer, very good! But, I... I did not like being Healer. Too... boring. I was bored. Chest colds; old people who were not sick, only old... it was all the same. I tried working in... more emergency accidents, and strange things. That was little better.”  
  
Till took a breath, unused to speaking so much in a foreign language, especially about this topic. “Then the war – and the Death Eaters they came to try to recruit my family, and we did not want to, and they threatened my sister, because she is married to a muggle. He is a good man. The Death Eaters said that the British Ministry had fallen, and it was only a matter of time until Voldemort had all power everywhere. They began attacking people – like my sister and her husband. And I thought that a Healer should prevent injury, not just fix it. And so I fought the Death Eaters. Then the war was over, and I went back to work... only...”  
  
“Only you had liked fighting,” Harry finished. “So, you decided to become an Auror.”  
  
“Yes,” Till nodded. “As Auror, I could do both – fight and, if my comrades were injured, I could heal. It was very hard to get job though, because I had not studied the right things, and the Aurors thought I was... not enough masculine, because of the way I talk. They say, even the women are more man.”*  
  
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Harry said. “Is that why you emigrated?”  
  
“When I heard you were Head of Auror Department in British Ministry, I thought there might be opportunity,” Till answered. He didn’t know why Harry was asking these questions. “It was said you would hire many new people, that you were good judge of character. I also read that you were raised by muggles, and I know from my sister’s husband that muggles have Healers in their armies – and so you might see that I would make a good Auror.”  
  
“You are,” Harry smiled. “You’ve worked for me for nearly three years now, and I have absolutely no complaints.”  
  
“Then why... um, why did you wish to see me today?”  
  
“Do you remember two years ago, when I brought in two consultants to train the Aurors in non-magical defence against paranormal muggle problems?” Harry asked instead of answering Till’s question.  
  
“Yes, I remember,” Till said. “Americans with no last names.”  
  
“Sam and Dean,” Harry smiled, but only briefly. “They have been through a lot in the past two years. Recently, Sam went through a very traumatic experience. He was... sick, for a while – um, in a very unique way. Dean found a cure though, and cured Sam of the sickness. Sam is better now or, he is supposed to be, but seems to have fallen into some sort of deep sleep. He has been asleep for five days, and Dean is understandably worried. He asked me if I knew a Healer that could go look at Sam.”  
  
“He is not already in hospital?” Till asked. “He should be in hospital. Even asleep, a person needs nourishment and water.”  
  
“No, he’s not in a hospital, and yes, I know he should be,” Harry said. "It’s complicated. Dean can’t bring Sam to a hospital. So, I said that I would bring someone to look at Sam. Till, would you be willing to make a short trip with me to America in order to check on Sam?”  
  
Till stared at Harry, waiting for him to add, ‘along with a team of Healers from St. Mungo’s hospital', but Harry just looked at Till expectantly.  
  
“Why me? You are Harry Potter,” Till said. “You could ask the very best Healer at St. Mungo’s, or... or anyone!”  
  
“But I trust  _you_ ,” Harry said. “I told you it was complicated. I need someone I can trust absolutely. Normally, when it comes to Sam and Dean, I would only involve my closest friends – and even then, only sparingly. Unfortunately, I’ve found that very few of my friends went on to careers as Healers.”  
  
Till didn’t know if he should be bursting with pride, or if he should be concerned with what exactly made things so complicated. It was a well known fact that Harry trust was difficult to earn, that only a select few were ever brought into his confidence. Till and Harry, all things considered, had spent very few one-on-one time together. There were the yearly performance meetings, in which Harry would tell Till that he was doing a good job, and Till would say that he likes his job. Till had been on a few missions with Harry, but that was always with a team, and Till tended to fade into the background. He hadn’t ever thought that Harry had noticed him much. Yet, Harry was telling him that he had somehow earned Harry’s trust.  
  
“What makes it complicated?” Till asked.  
  
Harry took a deep breath and Till could tell that he had prepared himself for this question.  
  
“If you agree to come, we must leave now, and we must leave from this office,” Harry said. “We will travel by an unregistered transatlantic portkey directly to Sam’s location. After we are finished, we will return here to this office by the same portkey. You will have to give me your word that you will tell absolutely no one about the trip, nor about any information you learn between when you entered this office and when you leave it after we are done.”  
  
Till nodded. In his head, he listed the facts: An illegal trip to American with Harry Potter, in order to help two mysterious and intimidating men with no last names who for some reason could not seek help at a hospital... that was far more interesting than diagnosing another chest cold back home.  
  
“I will need my supplies,” Till said.  
  
Harry smiled broadly and pulled a standard healer field kit out from under the desk. “If there’s anything else, let me know, I can have it sent.”  
  
“Perhaps after I see my patient then,” Till said.  
  
“There’s one more thing,” Harry said, and looked Till in the eye. “I want you to remember that the people we are about to see are my friends and they will not harm you in any way – but they are not men to be trifled with. Their enemies are greater than any force I have ever faced, and that includes Voldemort. They have seen things you cannot imagine, and they have both been through hell. It is in your best interest to be respectful.”  
  
“I understand,” Till said.  
  
“I doubt it,” Harry smiled. At Till’s frown he added, “But I believe you think you do, and that’s all I ask.”  
  
Ten minutes later, Till set foot on American soil for the first time in his life. He immediately looked around, wondering where they were – his hopes of being near a city where quickly dashed however, when he was met with endless stacks of broken automobiles, and beyond them, only a few trees could be seen.  
  
“Sorry, it’s not New York,” Harry said.  
  
Till shrugged. He was here for business, not pleasure.  
  
The house they were close to was old and dirty. The upper windows were boarded up, but the lower floor looked well lived in. Till followed Harry to the door.  
  
The door was opened by an older man in a baseball cap and a moth eaten shirt. He seemed to know Harry, but he eyed Till suspiciously.  
  
“Bobby, this is my field medic, Till,” Harry introduced. Till didn’t miss the fact that he had used a muggle term for Till’s position, but perhaps they did things differently in America. “Till, this is Bobby Singer.”  
  
“It is nice to meet you, Mr. Singer,” Till said, holding out his hand.  
  
“Nice to meet you too,” Bobby replied. He had a firm handshake, and he gave Till a kind half-smile, before turning back to Harry. “The boys are in the basement, follow me.”  
  
“No tests?” Harry asked.  
  
“No tests,” Bobby said, smiling at them over his shoulder as he led them through the house. “I’ll admit, a voice like that would be the perfect disguise for a demon, but if he is one, he won’t be able to get close to Sam anyway.”  
  
Till said nothing as he followed Mr. Singer and Harry down an old staircase to the cellar. He found himself hoping that the cellar was secretly a sterile hospital environment, but instead found that it was just a dirty damp cellar. He took a deep breath and ignored all the Healer instincts that were telling him that this was no place for a comatose patient. Harry had introduced him as a field medic, this was obviously the field, and for some reason they could not move Sam to another location.  
  
When they got to the bottom of the stairs, Till saw soft light spilling out from behind a partially closed metal door, and heard low humming.  
  
“Dean?” Bobby said.  
  
“We should put a radio in here,” a deep voice called back, echoing strangely.  
  
“Harry’s here,” Bobby said. “He brought someone.”  
  
Dean appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a towel.  
  
“Hey Harry,” Dean smiled.  
  
“How are you holding up?” Harry asked.  
  
“I’ve been worse,” Dean shrugged.  
  
“That doesn’t tell me anything,” Harry rolled his eyes. Dean gave him a little smile.  
  
“You going to introduce me to Sven Svenson?” Dean asked, nodding his head towards Till and tucking the end of the towel into his back pocket.  
  
“Right, sorry,” Harry said. “Dean, this is Till, he’s one of my aurors, but also a fully qualified healer. Till was also a member of my team when you and Sam gave the training session.”  
  
“Oh,” Dean said, shaking Till’s hand. “Sorry, I don’t really remember what anyone looked like anymore.”  
  
“I would not expect you to,” Till said. “I am not very memorable.”  
  
“I wouldn’t say that,” Dean said, smiling. “If I had talked to you, I would have remembered.”  
  
Till wasn’t sure if that was an insult or a compliment, so he changed the topic.  
  
“How is Sam?”  
  
The smile left Dean’s face, and was replaced with worry.  
  
“Come on,” Dean said, turning around and opening the large iron door fully, “I was just giving him a shave.”  
  
Till stepped into the round iron chamber in shock. In the middle of it lay Sam on a cot that was just a little too small for his large frame. Shadows passed over his face as a fan above them rotated slowly, but Till made out the pentagram shadow that remained. He recognized the pattern on the floor as another devils trap, with Sam securely in the middle. The levels of protection were not what shocked Till, what shocked him was seeing the bag of clear liquid hanging over Sam, dripping down a tube into his veins. What shocked him were the neat little row of stitches over a large cut on Sam’s leg:  
  
Muggles.  
  
Muggles who knew about ghosts and demons and how to fight without wands:  
  
Hunters.  
  
Dean picked up a bowl of water that was sitting next to Sam’s head and moved it over to the table. While his back was turned, Harry caught Till’s eye. Till took a deep breath and remembered the conditions Harry had given him before they had left. He willed his hammering heart to slow, as he put the revelation out of his mind, and set the bag of supplies next to Sam’s bed.  
  
“Do you need me to undress him first?” Dean asked.  
  
“No,” Till said, “I will diagnose first.” The wound on the leg would have to be treated, Till couldn’t in good conscience leave it as it was, but the pant leg was already ruined – cut open to the knee. If there were no other injuries, the patient could stay clothed.  
  
Till pulled out his wand, casting a brief look at Harry and Dean. They nodded, and he began the spells that would reveal Sam’s external and internal injuries to him. He whispered the spells softly under his breath, reading the curling colourful words and numbers that appeared in the air above Sam’s body. The words were written in Till’s native tongue, so when Till looked over at Dean briefly, he was not surprised to find that Dean wasn’t trying to read the words. But, Till realized that Mr. Singer was standing in the doorway and appeared to be reading along with Till.  
  
“Have you heard from Cas?” Harry asked Dean.  
  
“No, like I said when I called – I’ve tried, but he hasn’t shown up,” Dean answered gruffly. “You’d think he’d be concerned too, but I guess he’s got something important on.”  
  
“You mentioned that things are in turmoil,” Harry said. “I’m sure he would come if he could. What exactly is happening up there?”  
  
“He won’t say much about it,” Dean replied. “But apparently Raphael is trying to get the apocalypse rolling again, and well, obviously that would suck.”  
  
“You can’t be serious,” Harry said. “After everything... Do you think he actually has a shot at succeeding?”  
  
Till glanced up when the two paused, to find them both looking at Sam in great concern. Then Dean shrugged.  
  
“Like I said, Cas isn’t saying much.”  
  
“He has a wound on his head,” Till said. “Were you aware?”  
  
“Yeah, he um... had a bit of a fight before... um,” Dean answered.  
  
“Did he display signs of concussion?” Till asked, then cast a spell that would check for swelling in the brain.  
  
“No,” Dean said. “He was bleeding a bit, but he was awake and aware.”  
  
Till nodded, the spell confirming Dean’s story. The cut left behind was easy to fix, so Till did so.  
  
“The cut on his leg,” Till said. “I will heal it, I can do it by spell, or by potion. Given the time it has been left – um, given how long ago the cut was made, I think potions would be better – more thorough in cleaning the wound first. Do you agree to this?”  
  
“You don’t think my stitching job is good?” Dean asked. “I used surgical thread.”  
  
Till glanced at the wound, at the neat stitches, and reminded himself that Muggles were not barbarians, that they had to make do with what they had.  
  
“It is very good,” Till said. “Better sewing than I could do, but it would be good to heal it completely at once. No scar. No chance of infection. You want to keep him in this safe room, yes? It is safe, but perhaps not as clean as hospital.”  
  
Dean nodded. “If I had known you were coming, I would have just used dental floss instead of the good stuff.”  
  
Till tried not to show his horror at the very idea. He risked a glance at Harry, only to see that Harry seemed to be trying not to laugh at him. He wondered if perhaps it had been a joke, but Dean seemed to be serious.  
  
“I will leave you a potion,” Till said, not caring about violations of the Secrecy Act, “for next time one of you needs to be sewn together. You can use potion instead. Muggles can use potions, even though they cannot make them.”  
  
“Thanks,” Dean smiled. Till breathed a sigh of relief.  
  
“What made the cut?” Till asked.  
  
“An axe,” Mr. Singer said from the doorway.  
  
“Was there rust?” Till asked.  
  
“No, it was my good axe.”  
  
“Good, that is good,” Till said.  
  
Bobby Singer grumbled something and left the doorway, disappearing back into the house. Harry raised an eyebrow. Dean shrugged. Till turned his attention back to his patient.  
  
The potion he decided to use first was a cleaning potion. It would dissolve the stitches and clean any dirt out of the wound, while not harming the flesh. Till busied himself with getting it out of the kit, as well as a clean sterile cloth, while Harry and Dean resumed their conversation in hushed tones. Till didn’t pay them much mind any longer, beyond overhearing Harry asking if there were conditions to some deal.  
  
Rather than kneel on the concrete floor, Till lifted Sam’s injured leg and sat at the end of the cot, bracing Sam’s booted foot on his chest and tilting the leg so that he could poor the potion directly onto the cut. Once the potion made contact, it was absorbed by the wound, and then ten seconds later expelled – with any impurities now contained with the liquid running down Sam’s calf. Till used the cloth to gently wipe it away before it dripped onto the bedding.  
  
“What’s that?” Dean asked, his voice suddenly louder. Till glanced up to see Dean looking in concern at Sam’s wound, his hand seemingly unconsciously stroking Sam’s hair.  
  
“Cleaning,” Till said. “Not painful. Feels nice, like a warm bath.”  
  
Dean nodded, but continued to stroke Sam’s hair, as though Sam could at any moment suddenly awake and be frightened. Maybe he could. When the wound stopped weeping, Till threw the soiled cloth on the floor and held out his hand, wandlessly summoning the healing potion, which he caught out of the air.  
  
“Can you see his soul?” Dean suddenly asked. Till paused in opening the potion.  
  
“Only the gods can see souls,” Till answered. Dean frowned.  
  
“So, all those checks you just did... you can’t...” Dean trailed off. Till wasn’t sure what he was trying to ask.  
  
“There is nothing physically wrong with Sam,” Till answered. “I do not know why he sleeps. He shows some signs of exhaustion. You show more though, and yet, you remain awake. If the problem is with his soul – this is beyond my ability as a healer.”  
  
“Damn it,” Dean growled, taking his hand off Sam’s head, so he could reach for a class of whiskey on the table. Till uncapped the healing potion and dribbled it sparingly into the cut. Most British wizards used their wands while they chanted, but Till had learned the old fashioned way of kneading the flesh around the wound with his fingers. He let the magic flow through his fingers into the patient. His grandmother had insisted it made the healing better.  
  
“Do you think he lied?” Harry asked Dean. Till listened with half an ear, while he watched Sam’s flesh slowly knit itself back together.  
  
“No,” Dean said. “Sam’s definitely in there, it’s just... a year and a half, Harry. He was down there a year and a half. Cas said... he said that Sam might not be... that he might be some sort of vegetable. If four months up here is the equivalent of forty years in Hell, who knows how time passes in Lucifer’s cage?”  
  
Till stuttered over his chant. Lucifer’s cage. A year and a half. A year and a half ago, Harry had announced that the apocalypse had been averted. They had celebrated. A few days later, a rumour had gone around that one of Harry’s friends had died – no one they knew, but apparently they died in the line of duty and had saved many people.  
  
“But you said Death wanted you two to continue to Hunt,” Harry said. “Certainly, he would have healed Sam’s soul enough to-”  
  
Harry suddenly cut off, and Till glanced up from where he was staring at Sam’s half-healed wound. Dean it seemed, was shaking his head as he swallowed down some whiskey.  
  
“Apparently you can’t heal souls, not like that,” Dean said. “I asked him just to... cut off the bit that damaged, but he said that you can’t... you can’t do that to a soul.”  
  
“No, severing a soul is a very very bad idea,” Harry muttered. He glanced at Till, and Till scrambled for the potion again, dribbling more onto the wound and resuming his whispered chanting. Till massaged the wound and thought, ‘this is the man who defeated Lucifer, this is the man who saved us,’ and Till suddenly felt wholly inadequate that all he could do for Sam was heal these superficial wounds.  
  
“He said that instead, he’d put this wall up in Sam’s mind, with all the bad stuff behind it,” Dean continued. “But that it wasn’t perfect... like shoddy drywall, and that if Sam scratched at it... well, it’d be bad.”  
  
“Well, then you don’t have to worry,” Harry said.  
  
“He could be scratching it right now!” Dean said, gesturing to Sam’s head. “I just got him back Harry – I thought he was gone forever, and then he was back, but it was just his fucking body, and... god, what if this didn’t even work and-”  
  
“It must have been a major shock,” Till spoke up, as he watched Sam’s wound finally disappear completely.  
  
“What?” Dean asked.  
  
“To be returned to his body, to be rescued after so much time,” Till said. “It would have been a major shock, no?”  
  
“I, yeah...” Dean said. “Yeah, um, it is – I mean, probably was.”  
  
“That is why he sleeps,” Till said. “When a person gets a major shock, they must sleep in order to recover, to understand what has happened to them. It is normal. The bigger the shock, the more need to sleep.”  
  
“You think?” Dean asked, his gaze on Sam’s sleeping face.  
  
“Yes, he is healthy and strong,” Till said. He carefully placed Sam’s leg back down on the mattress, as he stood again. He pulled the pooled fabric of Sam’s ruined jeans out from under his calf, so that Sam would be more comfortable. He glanced at the bloody fabric, and frowned, raking his eyes up Sam’s body to see that the shirt was also dirty, and that Sam’s hair was a little greasy from not being washed in a few days.  
  
“Something the matter, Doc?” Dean asked.  
  
“Do you want me to help you bathe him while I’m here?” Till asked. “I am trained, and with magic, we would not have to move him from this room. I could wash and mend his jeans as well.”  
  
“Really?” Dean said. “Um, that’d be great, yeah.”  
  
Till smiled and looked over at Harry, who smiled back at him, but continued to stay where he was. Till waited. Harry gave him a confused look and so did Dean.  
  
“Sir,” Till said. “Only family and Healer are allowed in the room while the patient is unclothed, for protection of modesty.”  
  
“Oh!” Harry said, and quickly made his way towards the door. “I’ll just, um, I’ll... go uh, make some coffee.”  
  
Dean smiled at Till after Harry had left the room.  
  
“You just kicked the Chosen One out of the room,” Dean said. “Not frightened of losing your job?”  
  
“The patient is the most important person in the room,” Till said. “I think we can both agree that this is especially true in Sam’s case.”  
  
Dean smiled.  
  
They worked efficiently, moving Sam as little as possible. Till used magic to wash Sam’s hair and mend his clothes. They used the wash basin that Dean had been using to shave Sam before Till arrived, and some towels that Dean had on hand. Then Till cast a slight warming charm on Sam’s clothes as they carefully redressed him – it was not ideal to have a patient in a damp basement.  
  
While they worked, Dean asked Till about himself, if he had any family, so Till told him about his sister and her husband. Dean told him a little bit about Sam, mostly anecdotes about Sam’s youth. Till had difficulty matching the large muscled sleeping man with the awkward and studious personality that Dean insisted Sam had.  
  
Till asked Dean about the bag of clear fluid that was dripping into Sam – he did not know much about muggle medicine. Dean explained it, and Till was impressed by the ingenuity. Till pulled some potions from his bag, and left them with Dean, along with carefully written instructions on how to use them.  
  
Eventually they left Sam and went upstairs, where Harry was sitting with Bobby Singer, discussing monsters. Harry gave Till a questioning look and Till nodded back. Harry stood.  
  
“Well, we’ve already been here long enough to be suspicious,” Harry said. “It was great talking with you, Bobby. Dean, I’m sorry we couldn’t wake Sam.”  
  
“Yeah, me too,” Dean said. “But I appreciate you bringing the doc regardless, and maybe he’s right – maybe Sam just needs to sleep off the shock.”  
  
“If he does not wake up in the next week, we could try to force him awake,” Till said. “But I do not recommend it, as it is hard on the mind, and you have said that his mind might be fragile. It is best he wakes up only if he is ready.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “Thanks. I gotta tell ya, you have a great voice for a doctor – fucking soothing. You could probably tell me I’ve got two weeks to live, and I’d still think everything was going to be okay.”  
  
“Thank you,” Till said, blushing, “but I am not a doctor anymore – now, Auror and ‘field medic.’ Being a doctor was... boring.”  
  
“Maybe you just had the wrong patients,” Dean smiled.  
  
“Hey now, he’s one of my best – try not to convince him to leave me,” Harry joked, but then sobered and added, “Keep in touch, Dean, let me know the minute something changes, or doesn’t change, whatever the case may be.”  
  
“I will,” Dean said. He pulled Harry into a half hug, and then shook Till’s hand firmly. “Thanks for looking after my brother, Doc.”  
  
“It is the least I could do,” Till said, and added a very sincere, “Thank you.”  
  
Dean just gave him a confused look. Besides him, Harry activated the portkey, and Till quickly reached out to place his hand on it.  
  
Three, Two, One...The two Hunters, the dusty study, the old rundown house surrounded by broken automobiles, and the unseen hero in the basement all disappeared in a blur of colour, as Till was yanked through space, twirling at outrages speeds, his shaggy blond hair stinging where it hit him in the face. The temperature dropped to an almost unbearable degree, Till’s stomach felt like it was in his throat and then his feet. Just when Till thought he couldn’t take any more, the twirling stopped, and he found his feet back on solid ground, with the interior of Harry’s office suddenly surrounding him.  
  
Till collapsed backwards onto the chair in front of Harry’s desk, as Harry staggered over and took his seat. Till decided he did not like transatlantic portkeys.  
  
“Two hours,” Harry said. “Take a moment to catch your breath, but then you better get back to your desk.”  
  
Till nodded.  
  
“Do you remember the conditions I gave you?” Harry asked.  
  
Till nodded slowly. He could never tell anyone where he was, who he was with, or what he learned. He could never tell anyone that he met the man who defeated Lucifer, that he tended to his wounds and bathed him. He could never tell anyone that he had traveled to a broken house, surrounded by broken cars, inhabited by broken men. Men who saved the world, who saved everybody, yet had torn clothes, and slept in basements, and had learned to doctor themselves because no one else would. Till could not tell anyone that he had done everything he could to help them, yet it was not enough, not nearly as much as they deserved.  
  
“What do I say?” Till asked.  
  
“Say we were discussing whether revisions had to me made in the Healer kits during active missions,” Harry said.  
  
“Revisions to the Healer kits?” Till asked.  
  
“Do you think they need them?” Harry asked.  
  
“No,” Till said.  
  
“I agree. I’m glad we were able to discuss this so thoroughly. You can go back to your regular work now.” Harry smiled.  
  
“Oh,” Till said, and stood to leave.  
  
“Till,” Harry said. Till turned back. “Thank you.”  
  
“No,” Till said. “Thank  _you_  .”  
  
It had been an honour and a privilege.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer - Although Till is Scandinavian, I'm not suggesting that the Scandinavian countries are misogynistic/homophobic, nor is Till's accent supposed to be an accent from the Scandinavian countries. Till was actually born and raised in an eastern European country that shall remain nameless - English is his third, fourth, or possibly fifth language.


	7. Chapter 7

Since Harry knew that Dean had confined himself to Bobby’s until Sam woke up, he used the mirror to check in every evening. It seemed Dean had just left it lying on Bobby’s desk, because sometimes Bobby answered, told him Sam was still asleep and that Dean was ‘hanging in’ and that was that. Which was why a spike of adrenaline ran through Harry when his pocket said his name one evening, nearly a week since Harry had brought Till to visit the Winchesters.   
  
Harry pulled the mirror from his pocket. Ginny, who was sitting next to him on the couch, put down the book she was reading and sat up straight. The kids carried on playing across the room – it wasn’t too unusual for Harry to get a call in the evening after all.   
  
“Dean?” Harry asked, flipping the mirror open and waiting the excruciatingly long three seconds until Dean’s image swam into focus. Dean was smiling. Dean was smiling very broadly.   
  
“Shh, check it out,” Dean said, and then angled the mirror away from him. Harry saw the wall of Bobby’s study, then the open door into the kitchen, and then...then he saw the large form of Sam puttering around the kitchen, getting a plate from the cupboard, getting food out of the fridge. Harry stifled his urge to call out to the man, and he felt Ginny draw a breath beside him.    
  
Sam was humming off key to himself, then he stopped, and without turning around called out.   
  
“Hey Dean, do you want ham or bologna in your sandwich?” As he spoke, he opened one of the packages in front of him and smelled it. Then opened another and did the same, only to pull his head back immediately. “Nevermind! You’re getting bologna.”   
  
Harry watched as Sam turned to throw, what was most likely, the ham into the bin, and then caught sight of Dean in the corner of his eye.   
  
“Oh, you’re right there,” Sam said. “Why didn’t you- What-”   
  
“Harry,” Dean said. “It’s Harry. Come say hi.”   
  
Sam smiled, really smiled – and Harry knew it had all worked.    
  
Sam took the mirror from Dean, causing the image to shake a little bit. Beside Harry, Ginny ducked out f the way wand wiped a little at her eyes. Harry couldn’t blame her.   
  
“Hi Harry, how’s it going?” Sam asked.   
  
“Brilliant,” Harry said. “Everything is going really well. How are you?”   
  
“Good,” Sam said. “I uh, Dean says I was gone for a year and a half, but I don’t remember- um, I don’t remember anything, just uh, falling. I remember falling, and then I woke up here – and Bobby’s alive, and so’s Cas apparently.”   
  
“That’s good,” Harry said. “The wa-”   
  
“Yeah,” Dean interrupted loudly. “I hope he never remembers  _any_  of it.”   
  
Harry paused, and realized what Dean was saying.   
  
“Oh,” Harry said. “Right, yes, exactly. It’s really worked out well.”   
  
“Dean told me it was your idea to talk to Death, Harry,” Sam said. “He shouldn’t have done that. I told him not to-”   
  
“I know, but you didn’t tell me anything,” Harry said. “And it’s not like I forced him. So don’t shoot the messenger. Besides, are you really going to tell me that you aren’t glad?”   
  
“No,” Sam said. “I’m glad. I’m....thank you, Harry. I mean it. Even if I don’t remember- ...I thought that I’d never- ...when I fell, I really thought that was it, and...”   
  
Dean cleared his throat awkwardly.   
  
“I’m just happy you’re alright now, Sam,” Harry said.    
  
“Samdean?” a voice suddenly said from across Harry’s living room. Harry looked up to find his three children staring at him.   
  
“Do you want to say hello to the kids?” Harry asked Sam in the mirror, as he beckoned his children over.   
  
“Yeah, sure,” Sam said. Harry turned the mirror towards the children as they lined up in front of him.   
  
“Hey guys, you remember Sam, right?”   
  
“Hi Sam,” James said.   
  
“Samdean! You’re back!” Albus smiled.   
  
“Hello,” Lily said cautiously.   
  
“Wow, hi guys,” Sam smiled. “God, you’re all so big now! Is that little Lily? I can’t believe- I mean, Dean said it’d been a year and a half, but it’s one thing to hear it and another to- ...just wow.”   
  
“You were gone,” James said. “And it was scary, but I wasn’t scared.”   
  
“No?” Sam said, a little confused.   
  
“No,” James said. “Lily was scared, but I was brave. I’m going to be in Gryffindor like Daddy.”   
  
“Sounds like it,” Sam said.    
  
“I wasn’ scared,” Lily pouted. “I giffendor too.”   
  
“All right,” Harry said. “I didn’t bring you over here to bicker, you can go back and play if you’re done talking to Sam, but say goodbye first.”   
  
“Ok, bye, Sam,” James said.   
  
“Goodbye,” Lily said dutifully.   
  
“Get well soon!” Albus said, and kissed his fingers and then smudged them on the mirror.   
  
“Albus,” Harry sighed, whipping the mirror off with his shirt.   
  
“Nice stomach, Harry,” Sam said.    
  
“Sorry,” Harry said. “I think Albus might be a little confused as to where exactly you’ve been.”   
  
“Probably better that way,” Sam smiled. “Thank him for the kiss-better, regardless. I think the last time I got one of those, I was five.”   
  
Harry laughed.    
  
*   
  
Later that night, as Harry was tucking Albus into bed, he couldn’t resist asking.   
  
“Albus?” Harry said. Albus looked up from where he was studying the illustrations in the book that Harry had been reading him.   
  
“Yes, Daddy?” Albus said, placing his finger on the elf character in the picture, as though holding his place.   
  
“Why did you tell Sam to get well soon?” Harry asked. Albus looked at him as though he were incredibly stupid.   
  
“Because he’s hurt,” Albus said.   
  
“How is he hurt?” Harry asked.   
  
“He’s all bloody,” Albus said, “but he hasn’t noticed yet, so it’s not that bad.”   
  
“What will happen when he notices?” Harry asked, trying to keep his voice level and calm.   
  
“I don’t know,” Albus shrugged. “’member when I stepped on Lily’s toy and hurt my foot?”   
  
Harry nodded, remembering that Albus had limped stoically half-way down the stairs, but, as soon as he saw the trail of blood behind him, he had burst promptly into wailing tears.   
  
“Maybe like that?” Albus said.   
  
“Oh,” Harry said. “Do you know when this will happen.”   
  
“Daddy,” Albus rolled his eyes, “I can’t see the future.”   
  
“Right,” Harry said, “that was silly of me.” Harry quickly changed his strategy. “Do you think Sam will be okay?”   
  
“I gave him a kiss better,” Albus said.    
  
“Yes, but sometimes that’s not-” Harry cut himself off, because Albus was giving him a very confused and concerned look. Harry realized that Albus had never had to fathom an injury that couldn’t be kissed better. He had never seen his friends die, nor heard his parents’ death-screams in his dreams, and Harry was going to make sure that he never did.   
  
Harry took a deep breath.   
  
“Maybe he needs more kisses than just me,” Albus offered.   
  
Harry smiled, looking down at the son who looked the most like him – black hair, green eyes, the only difference was the smattering of freckles across his nose, and the innocence that comes from growing up in a loving home. Harry wasn’t about to take any of that innocence away from him.   
  
“I love you,” Harry said.   
  
“I know, Dad,” Albus said, “I love you too.” Albus eyed him, his forehead crinkling. “Do you need a moment?”   
  
“Yes, I need a moment,” Harry said, and Albus moved over in his bed, so that Harry could lie down beside him. Albus turned back to his book.   
  
“Tell me how the story ends?” Harry asked.   
  
Albus smiled, pointing at the picture of the elf in the illustration inside his book.   
  
“The elf and the dwarf become friends,” Albus said, “and they go on a lot of adventures together. They climb a mountain, and go in a cave, and through a forest, and fight bad guys, and help their friends when they are in trouble. Then they live happily ever after.”   
  
“That’s a good ending,” Harry said.   
  
Albus nodded.   
  
As Albus tried to read the caption underneath the illustration, Harry thought about Sam and Dean. He wondered how long they had before Sam’s wall came down – before he saw the blood, as Albus put it. He wondered how it was that his son could see such a disturbing image, when all Harry saw was Sam, healthy, happy, and unharmed. He wondered about endings and whether or not it was actually possible for the Winchesters to have a happy one.   
  
“In the...dark...val-ley, the trave...the travellers...stopp-ed to rest for the nig- night,” Albus read out loud beside him, then turned to smile at Harry.   
  
“Good job,” Harry praised.   
  
“In the dark valley, the travellers stopped to rest for the night,” Albus repeated, then he looked at Harry and smiled, “and the day ended happily ever after.” Albus snapped the book closed.   
  
“What about the rest of the book,” Harry said, pointing to the edges of the unread pages.   
  
“That’s the future,” Albus said. “Today, they live happily ever after in the dark valley.”   
  
“But-” Harry said.   
  
“Go to bed, daddy,” Albus rolled his eyes, “if we stay awake to see what happens next, we’ll never get any sleep.”   
  
Harry smiled, kissed his son goodnight, and followed Albus’ advice. Whatever the future might bring, Harry would certainly need his rest.


End file.
